The Clash of Shadows
by WitchWolf
Summary: Shi'van Darkblade is a shadowdancer, and Valen Shadowbreath hates her guts. Not only does he not trust her – he also wants her dead. Repeatedly. And for good reasons, too. But death would have been too merciful...
1. prologue

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van.

**A note (please read before proceeding to the story):** Basically, this is just another HotU story. Well, mostly anyway. While the basic plot is still present, I changed quite a few things along the way. Something like, this is how HotU might have turned out. And what drove me to write this whole thing is… well, it was interesting to do so and I thought I might as well share it with the rest of you. Rated PG 13 just to be on the safe side.

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**The Clash of Shadows**

**introduction**

, "_The way is clear_." whispered the shadow behind him. It took him some effort to keep his face expressionless and his breathing even, not to show just how startled he was. Reddish glint of her eyes and a taunting smirk told him he didn't quite make it. He felt a renewed anger rising inside him, but before he could even begin to growl something, she already moved to the door, easily slipping out of the shadow and casually exposing her back to him. For a brief second he considered the opportunity. The only thing that stayed his hand was the thought of what would the Seer say. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he moved after her…

Her chuckle turned into a hearty laughter as she watched him rise back to his feet, his face bright red with rage and embarrassment. A trip-trap! Of all the bloody things he could have done, he stepped straight into a trip-trap!

"_You know_ …" she managed to say between two snickers "… _you're cute when your cheeks match the color of your hair_." And with that, she doubled over with laughter, apparently not at all disturbed by the fact that she was alone in the room with half o' ton of barely contained ragefury on a verge of a nervous breakdown. Well, half a dozen drow corpses that lied scattered around – her own handiwork from some 15 minutes ago – might've had something to do with that. Still, this time she stepped over the line. His rage taking over, he launched himself at her, striking hard.

Next few seconds were a blur of motion. He was aware somewhere in the back of his mind that he scored a hit, but that damnable creature was somehow still alive, rolling together with his blow and to his left. His next two strikes followed an instant later, forcing her to retreat even further. Much to her credit, she not only managed to dodge the last one, but she also launched a counter strike of her own with one of her two blades. Not too precise one and far from being lethal, but even so he felt the vicious bite of her blade keenly. It was just a graze really, but that blood-thirsty sword of hers tugged at his life force nevertheless.

"_What the fuck is your problem?_" He heard her sharp hiss from the shadows. Abruptly, he turned in the direction of the voice.

His first words came out as an incomprehensible snarl. Which was just as well, for he had no idea what he was going to say anyway. Offer an apology? Hardly likely. This … this trice-damned arrogant half-elf didn't stop taunting and provoking him since they made their first step out in the caves. And all the while muttering curses under her breath - mostly aimed at the geas, but from what he was able to understand (for she cursed in her native tongue most of the time) both he and the Seer followed close behind.

"_Stop. Mocking. Me._" He finally managed to squeeze out a few words through his gritted teeth.

"_Oh?_" she hissed right back "_So, if Mr. Valen steps into a trap that a goblin with a cataract could see is there, it's my fault, right?_

How he managed to keep his rage in check was a mystery, even to him.

"_Well, miss 'See-it-all' ", _he growled "_If I'm so incompetent, why in the Nine Hells do you drag me along then?_"

"_You fight good._" she responded casually and then winced as she probed her left shoulder with her right hand as if to underline what she just said. "_And big as you are, you're bound to be noticed by anyone or anything miles around … which gives me a perfect opportunity to do my work while you take the beating._"

That bloody bitch! Logical as her words were, they still reminded him too much of the attitude of his old master. In one quick stride he was beside her, glaring dangerously.

"_Now you listen to me, you …_" His hiss was thick with rage.

"_It's broken." _She said flatly, cutting him in the mid-sentence, her gaze locked on the corridor that led to the throne room.

"_What?_" His puzzlement was complete.

"_Sabal and her merry crew are waiting for us in that throne room…_" her gaze slowly met his, her eyes strangely calm, "… _and you just broke my shoulder._" she finished.

His eyes went wide.

"..._"_ He said.

"-_"_ He tried again.

"-.-.-_"_ He gave up.

Damn, damn, **damn**! He and his blasted temper! (What temper, Valen?) … But she was the one who started it! She and her mocking and taunting and … Still, he should've controlled himself. He was, after all, at least twice her size and about three times heavier, his flail the size of her whole arm and then some. Skilled as she was, she was still nowhere near his equal in combat and … Next realization struck him like a dire hammer. Had her reflexes been just a split second slower, he would've killed her with that first single blow!

"_I …_" he begun … Am sorry? No. That would sound stupid. Besides, was he really? He didn't trust her that's for sure, and she herself kept pointing out one way or another that she neither wanted nor deserved anyone's trust. Still, was that a reason to want her dead? To nearly kill her himself? Unable to come up with an answer to his own question, eventually he just grumbled:

"_Surely that vampire sword of yours can take care of it._"

He noticed a sudden glint in her eyes, but it was gone an instant later so he wasn't sure what to make of it. He also noticed however, that her grip on the sword slightly tightened.

"_Oh?_" she cocked her head. "_And whose life …_" her eyes slowly circled the corpse-filled room "_… do you suggest I take to heal myself?_" she asked, her eyes finishing the circle and resting on him once again.

Now it was he who gripped the weapon more firmly. She had a point there, and he just happened to be the only other creature alive in that room … Damn his big tongue.

His leg muscles tightened, his tail moving like that of a great cat about to leap. Though he did feel a slight pang of guilt accompanied by a brief image of the Seer, better part of him actually welcomed the fight that was, he was certain, about to begin any second. She was not his match in combat. True, she could leap in and out of the shadows at will and strike her crippling blows from there, six dead drow in the room served as a sobering reminder of that, but she was also wounded - much worse than he was. He was confident he could withstand a couple of her blows. All he needed was one. One strike alone, and the half-elf's no more. The thought brought an eager gleam into his eyes. So be it then, he thought to himself. All the better in fact. That woman was dangerous and neither he nor the Seer needed more enemies beside the Valsharess. An image of that blood-red blade plunging from the shadows through the Seer's heart flashed brightly in his mind. His rage renewed, he readied himself to attack.

"_Sorry, _" her taunting voice stopped him, "_but it doesn't work that way … Unfortunately._" Her lips were curved in a small smirk, but her eyes remained cold.

"_A pity._" He countered, his sarcasm matching her own.

For a long moment they stared at each other in silence. Then, she tossed him the pouch with the mirror shards, nodding towards the door.

"_Better that they think I'm dead._" She answered his unspoken question.

"_And once I'm inside, you shall …_" he left it hanging, his voice dripping with hatred and mistrust.

"… _make the sisters in there really red._" she purred, blending once more into the shadows.

Somehow she managed to do it so that the last thing to be seen of her was her wicked grin. Neat. She must have spent a long time practicing that … Or not. … Whatever. Sabal was a priority target here, he reminded himself. The half-elf will have to wait.

"Next time, Shi'van", he thought to himself, "Next time."

Taking another deep breath to steady himself, Valen moved towards the door. His footsteps were marked by the quiet grumble from the shadows making some far-from-complimentary remarks about a certain "goat-horned blood-thirsty trap-triggering shoulder-breaking flail-wielding brute".

* * *

"_Told ya!_" he said with a grin as he landed his final blow. Just a few short moments ago she laughed out loud at his cries of "_You cannot win this fight!_" Now, he was standing above her bloodied corpse, shaking his head and grinning. Those drow never listen, do they? He bowed down and scooped up the final piece of the mirror. Sabal won't be needing it any more. Nor will she need some other things, he mused as he shot a quick glance at some pieces of her equipment. A shuffle from the far side of the throne room reminded him that the fight was not over yet. Or then again, maybe it was. When he spun around ready to charge he saw only the body of the last one of the Red Sisters shaking violently as the sword that protruded from her chest sucked out her life force and fed it to it's wielder. Not really wanting to see that particular person, he spun on his heels and made his way towards a bizarre sight, if he ever saw one - the fool on the throne.

He heard the movements behind him as a certain shadowy figure amused herself by looting the corpses. He pointedly kept his gaze on the fool, studying his movements as he went about the mirror-repairing business.

"_This will take a while_" the fool said without turning to face him. "_Maybe you should go to the queen's cave, for once this mirror is fixed …_" he paused for just a moment, "_ … I shall be of little use._"

Valen stared at him in silence. Fixing this mirror will save the fool's people, but at what cost? Once it was done he will turn into a fool once again and then he likely won't even remember any of this. But now, right now, he was fully aware of everything, fully aware of what he was about to lose. And yet, his movements were swift and efficient, his features calm, not a hint of regret evident on his face … if there even was any. Valen had to admire the small avariel. Such devotion, he thought. As great as was his own to the Seer. Or at least he hoped so. How far would he go for her? How much would he be willing to sacrifice?

A shuffle from behind snapped him back from his contemplations and brought back the scowl on his face. Well, there was one whose answer to that question he was certain of. Downright nothing! Blast it all, it took the Seer fully two days to get her to at least stay, and a ridiculously huge amount of gold to get her to help them. Waste of money, he told her, but she kept insisting that this one and no other is their salvation and that they had to secure her help, no matter the price. My ass they had to! All that gold got them was a completely unreliable and uninterested mercenary whose loyalty, even to money, was as solid as a slime jelly on a hot day.

Clenching his fists, he walked out of the throne room never even looking her way, and headed to the queen's cave.

* * *

_Well, that's it for the introduction. Yes, I skipped the entire Shaori's Fell run-around and cut straight to the 'grand finale'. I really wasn't inspired to write about all that running around after mirror pieces. The entire episode felt too silly anyway. But just for the record - No, there most definitely wasn't a balor in the wizard's tower! If there was, I wouldn't have anything to write about, for both Valen and Shi'van would be dead. Hey, it is, after all, the most powerfull tanar'ri there is... _


	2. Snakes

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van.

O.K. here is where I begin painting my own little vision of Lyth My'atar and it's respective inhabitants. Also, there is a description of Matron Maeviir's demise described from the point of view of a shadowdancer... or at least, I tried to make it sound like that. Hopefully, you'll like it.

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**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter one**

**Lith My'athar, couple of days later …**

His tail was stiff and twitching. To all who knew him that was a certain sign that he was in a fouler mood than a dire bear with a diarrhea and that the best thing to do was to keep as far away from him as possible. Which was precisely what Imloth did. Even those who didn't know the tiefling would know to keep their distance – the state of what used to be a practice dummy in front of him would clearly tell them so.

"_If he keeps it up like that much longer, you'll have to provide your troops with something else to practice on_" Nathyrra remarked.

"_If he keeps it up like that, _" Imloth responded without taking his eyes off the tiefling, "_maybe we should just turn him around and point him towards the Valsharess and her armies_"

Nathyrra snickered. "_I think it's someone else he'd like to be pointed and turned lose at._"

Imloth paused for a moment to consider the possibility of that prospect and then whined:

"_My poor practice dummies._"

That brought another chuckle from Nathyrra.

"_And where is she, anyway?_" he asked.

"_Dunno._" she shrugged. "_As soon as the Seer gave her the salve for her shoulder she went straight to her room and didn't come out since then._"

"_Didn't she go to her … err, kobold?_"

"_Oh, she did that. But afterwards … Not even the kobold knows where she is right now._"

"_Or, more likely, he just won't tell us._"

"_Whatever_" Nathyrra shrugged "_I just hope she keeps out of Valen's sight a while longer_" She looked at Imloth squarely "_I'd hate to see scrapping a flattened half-elf off the floor being added to the list of your duties_"

Imloth just sighed deeply and turned his attention back on the tiefling.

"_My poor, poor dummies._" he mumbled. The sympathy in his voice was actually sincere.

"_Bloody!_"- WHACK -"_Fuckin'!_"-BAAM- "**_Bitch!_**"- CRUSH!

The splinters sprayed around him as another practice dummy went to pieces. Wildly, he spun about looking for the next target to vent his rage on.

"_Valen … _" he heard the voice behind him

"_Maybe you've had enough now?_" Imloth was standing in the middle of the wreckage, looking at him. Fighting his urge to kick and trash things about, Valen forced himself to calm down.

"_She should've given it to the Seer!_" he growled.

The drow nodded. "_Agreed. But she didn't_" Before Valen could begin to respond, Imloth continued. "_What's done is done, Valen, and the Ser said it was all right for her to keep it. So let her keep the damned mirror and calm down already. What's done is done, and having you ruin my training grounds is not gonna change anything, … nor is it gonna help anyone._"

Valen stared hard at him. When he and that … #! … returned here two days ago bringing that mirror with them, he thought that they had finally accomplished something. Not much, but it was still the first positive thing that happened to them in a long time. It also gave him at least some meaning to the ordeal he was put through. And then, that damnable creature (how he hated her guts!) stated she's gonna keep it! Just like that! Argh!

"_Valen, .._" Imloth said sensing the tiefling's rage was about to rise again

"_All right, all right._" Valen said, taking a step back. "_I'm done._"

"_For now._" murmured Imloth as he watched him go. It's been only two weeks since the half-elf arrived in their camp, and Valen was already out of himself. True to the heart, it didn't take much to make Valen furious, even at the best of times but still … Just what was it that she did to make him _this_ pissed? Imloth couldn't tell, for he himself has met her but maybe twice. What he could gather so far was fairly little. She seemed competent enough (… for a surfacer), she was quick and stealthy, she had some skill with the blades and that was about it. She also had a knack for getting out of trouble, he suspected, for if her attitude and personality were anywhere near as "charming" as Valen's current state of mind suggested, then no shadows in the world were dark and deep enough to hide her from her many "Valen-like friends". Then again, if she had any sense at all, she might have known better then to provoke a tiefling weapon master with a bad attitude. Imloth shook his head. All in all, he concluded, he knew next to nothing about her and judging by the wreckage around him he might as well want to stay as ignorant as he was.

She was handsome though, he had to admit, even if she was a bit too exotic for his taste. Not that her looks really mattered any, but her chocolate colored skin did compliment her strange greenish hair quite nicely. Combine that with those few blackgreen tattoos she had, her slender movements and her graceful (some would say downright skinny) form and what you get is quite of a problem when you're trying to keep your troops focused on their drill. In fact, Imloth was pretty certain that the only reason he did not face that kind of a problem as yet were her eyes. They were dark emerald in color, but while that in itself was not that strange (though it wasn't so common either), what looked really weird was their shift to the darkvision. Since the red glow that usually accompanied the shift was covered by the primary color of her eyes, which was green, the effect it produced when she was using her darkvision was that her eyes appeared to be glowing black, as if a shadow of a fire has been lit in them and now glowed with it's own dark light. And _that_, Imloth thought, looked very weird indeed. Kinda scary too, he had to add, especially when instead of having their usual mocking glint they turned into two dead-cold orbs of polished dark glass. He actually found himself shuddering at the image of it.

Well, better him than I, he decided in the end. Even if it means repairing the training grounds every few days or so, he was still glad that it was Valen and not him who got himself stuck working with her.

…_Very_ glad.

* * *

Deekin was happy. He wasn't so happy back then when that nasty frog-thing clawed him in the Undermountain. The disease he caught then that bound him to bed be too much for the boss to handle, and then there was this "boom" and the "zapp" and the wizard that was really two wizards, and then all happened too fast and they could nots go back to Waterdeep. And Deekin gots very very sick and he cannots go with the boss any more either, but the boss carries him and says Deekkin's gonna get better soon and then Deekin goes adventuring with boss again, but until then Deekin rests and gets to sort his notes and boss promises Deekin she tells him everything he missed so Deekin gets to write that down too, even if Deekin wasn't there to see it. And boss keeps her promise, too. She leaves Deekin with lots of pen and paper and goes away, and when she back she tells it all to Deekin and even brings Deekin a present! _The kobold glanced at the mirror he put down on the bed._ Now Deekin gets to see all he wants and never has to go running around hurting his feet on sharp pebbles and stuff. But Deekin still goes with the boss as soon as he be better, Deekin tells the boss. Deekin not likes that man that be part-goat that goes with the boss now. The boss laughs and says he not be part goat but part demon, but Deekin can write in his book he be part goat anyway. Deekin says he thinks that be more appropriate too – the big man hurt the boss, so it must be he a goat. Then boss laughs again. Deekin likes it when boss laughs. She laughs a lot when she be with Deekin. Deekin thinks that good. She tolds Deekin once that she never laughs when she was little … She tolds Deekin a lots that day. Deekin be very sad for her then, but boss says that be the past now and she not wants to live in the past. Deekin says he nots know how one can go back to live in the past when they be living in the present, but then that ugly scorpion men comes and Deekin never gots his answer. Instead, Deekin almost gots not to live in the present any more either. Brrrr, those scorpion men be very very nasty indeed. _He shifted in his chair a bit and stretched his wings. For a brief moment he studied the mirror again, but resisted the urge to use it._ Deekin promises the boss he not scries on her when she says she wants to be alone, and Deekin keeps his promises. That be what he tells that nice drow lady that sees things who comes to him this morning to ask if Deekin lets her borrow the mirror sometimes. Deekin tells her she can, but she must not scry on the boss, 'cause Deekin promises the boss she be left alone when she wants to be. Nice drow lady smiles and promises she wonts do that, and if Deekin not trusts her then Deekin can come with her and make sure she keeps the promise. Deekin tells her that be o.k. and she can borrow Deekin's mirror whenever she wants to, even when Deekin not around, but she must gives it back to Deekin when boss goes out again 'cause Deekin has a story to write. The drow lady smiles and thanks Deekin a lot and says to him he be a real good friend to the boss. Deekin tells her he knows that, and then the drow lady leaves. Deekin likes this drow lady, she be very nice. He must finds her a nice place in his book …

* * *

**meanwhile …**

"_Twenty thousand._"

"_Agreed._"

* * *

**Next evening…**

_A hiss. A snake. And another. Duck! Evade! Turn. Thrust. Again. That's good. Now turn, full circle. Side step, evade. A whip crack! No – misstep and die. Move to the rhythm. The beat, can you hear? It's getting closer, the drums in your blood. Blend with them, feel them, and dance to their sound. The fangs! No matter, it's just the snakes. You know them, don't you? Don't worry, just dance. Now jump! That's it. Parry and strike. No, no, keep dancing – to stop is to die. Good, now roll. Keep moving … Rise! Hip in, bend over, parry, duck. _

_The scythe is descending! Don't stand there, move! No, it's not Death – it's just its reflection. … But it will be, unless you're careful. Ah, that weapon has tasted your blood. You feel it? Good, then you're still alive. Snakes too? – So what? Just follow the beat. Your dance is not over, it only begun. _

_Easy, easy, remember the beat. There, that's better. And now for the shadows. Small steps, quickly. Step in them. Good. Embrace them dancer, they'll shield you from harm. Comfortable now? Care to speed up? O.K, let's do it. – See, it's not hard._

_Look out for that bolt! Ouch, that stung. Hey, that's whole shower! … Keep moving, what else? Almost there … Great! Now strike! And again! One more. Ha! You did it! Now turn. Head down. What's with those hips? Forgot you have them? Then move them, damn it! You've dancing to do!_

_Back into shadows, scythe's here again. Keep low and … Argh! I told you "Keep low!" Oh well, whatever. Leap over it then. Ugh … almost perfect. Serves you right, too. That's what you get for exposing your back. Turn around now, you're too close to duck. Follow the loop and .. _

… _No, no, alert! The casting! Stop her! Roll, screw the scythe! The hiss, let it guide you – snakes always had. Now dancer! Strike! Before it's too late! Aim for the heart, quickly … Yes!_

_Now, while the rhythm's still with you, jump! Leap into shadow, turn while in air – not much time left, the dance nears its end. So hurry, speed up the rhythm again. Into the shadow! You don't have much time. No show-off strikes, you've time for just one. Spring out! Evade! Thrust … … and it's done._

_Very good dancer. Now, slow down. Breathe. You've danced their deaths. It's over. Relax._

_Oh, and by the way - Next time I tell you to screw the scythe … Don't_

_

* * *

_

A young drow entered her chambers, his stance revealing his uneasiness. "_Matron Mother Maeviir requesting an audience, my lady._" he announced. "_Matron Mother Zesyyr_", he added.

The Seer raised her eyebrow. Zesyyr? Just when the hell did that happen? And how? If any assassins had been hired Nathyrra would have promptly informed her about it. She was, after all, in charge of their entire spying network, as well as every other thing that was being done in the shadows. Surely such a thing could not slip by her unnoticed. Or could it, she wondered, for now she remembered that here was one particular shadow even Nathyrra didn't fully control. And apparently, neither did Valen, even though it was his job to do so. She must have a talk with him later. Definitely later, she decided – Right now she had a newly appointed matron mother waiting for her and it was never wise to let her kind wait for too long, newly appointed or not.

"_Send her in._" she told the guard and prepared herself mentally for the meeting to come.

"_Matron Zesyyr_" She greeted her guest bowing slightly. "_To what do I owe the pleasure?_"

"_Why to my late mother, of course._" replied Zesyyr with an evil smile. "_With my mother's … unfortunate passing, the alliance she has forged with you had also died._" Zesyyr paused for a moment taking a measure of satisfaction in the Seer's sudden uneasiness before continuing slyly. "_As the new Matron of house Maeviir, I have now come to reforge it._"

The Seer relaxed visibly. "_I am grateful that such is your wish, Matron_" she offered with a smile, "_Please then, sit down. We have much to discuss._"

Much later, after Zesyyr had gone back to her house, the Seer leaned back in her chair. It was a long and an exhausting meeting, though it turned out to bee quite to her satisfaction as well. However, there still remained one more thing that demanded her attention before she could allow herself few hours of much needed rest.

As if on cue the door flung open and a weary-looking tiefling stepped inside.

"_Valen,_" she said with a welcoming smile "_Do close the door and sit down … Not a good day you're having?._" She asked as he slumped into a chair.

"_Had better._"

"_I trust you heard about house Maeviir?_"

He grunted something that sounded like a "yes".

"_I've just finished my meeting with Zesyyr. Fortunately for us, she seems to be backing us up a bit more sincerely than her mother did. … It could've been different, you know._" She pointedly glared at him as she spoke that last sentence. His eyes shot up to meet hers. "_You do know who did it, don't you?_" A sour look on his face told her that he did. "_Valen,_" she sighed "_I did hope you would keep an eye on her._" There was a slight undertone in her voice that sounded a bit accusing, but before he could protest, she continued. "_I know it's a difficult thing that I ask of you and I do not expect you to watch her twenty four hours a day, but this could've been the death of us all._" Sensing his sudden uneasiness at her words, the Seer promptly moved to sit in front of him, and gently placed her hands over his own. "_My friend,_" she said softly "_I know you do not believe in my visions, but I know you neither believe me a fool blinded by them. Shi'van is important, for all of us – I am certain of it. In what way however, I cannot tell. Perhaps her role in our war will turn out to be a great one indeed and perhaps she's just a small pebble in the river of events, but a pebble that can start an avalanche of destiny._" She paused to make sure she had his full attention. Once satisfied that she had, she continued "_Rest assured though that I am not making a mistake of thinking her devoted to our cause, nor do I think her harmless, especially after her latest exploit. She is a dangerous woman Valen, and I need someone to make sure she does not become a danger to us. I do not believe that she will, but one can never be too careful … And that is why I need you. Nathyrra has her hands full already and Imloth, I'm afraid, is not up to the task. He is a good general and he can manage the troops even without your aid, but you are the one, the only one, I can trust with this task. Please my friend, you must do this._"

It took him several moments to fully digest what she just said. Then slowly, he nodded his head in acknowledgement, letting her know that her words had indeed sunk in. Satisfied with that, the Seer rose back to her feet and poured them both some vine.

"_So,_" he said after a while "_Where is my appointed curse now?_"

"_Patching up, I suppose_" she shrugged. "_I heard she has a big nasty slash on her back._"

"_May it catch an infection and split her in two_" he silently grumbled under his breath. The Seer couldn't resist.

"_Why Valen,_" she teased "_You can barely handle one of her as it is. What in the world would you do with two of them?_"

The expression of sheer terror on his face sent her laughing again. Eventually, it managed to coax out a small smile on the tiefling's lips. Without further comment, he walked out of the room, leaving the Seer to her well-deserved rest.

* * *

"_Ouch!_"

"_Boss! You knows Deekin not too good with needle and tread And if you keeps twisting, he be even worse!_"

"_All right, all right. I'm still. Keep stitching._"

The wound on her back was not as bad as she thought, but it hurt twice as worse. Still, it was a clean cut – if she takes care how she moves for the next few days, it should heal itself nicely. But be her wound bad or not, she still wasn't about to let it stop her from a little something she had planned for today.

"_Yipes!_" … Or at least she hoped it wouldn't stop her.

"_Hold still, boss! If you nots be still, Deekin makes you more holes then there be in a sieve!_"

Some time later, after the long and painful job of stitching her wounds was done, Shi'van went out saying something about a certain scythe catching a good price on the market. Deekin was staring at the door for a long moment after she was gone.

She did seem o.k, outwardly. She claimed that aside from her wounds she was perfectly all right. But Deekin knew better than that. There was something dark and distant lurking in the corners of her eyes, something that Deekin had hoped he will not see there again. Now, he suspected, Shi'van was in for some serious nightmares during the next couple of nights. And if he knew anything at all about "the boss", there will be plenty of snakes in them, too...

* * *

Zesyyr sat on the throne. She was satisfied. Five snakes on her belt wriggled excitedly, sensing their wielder's pleasure. So now she was a Matron, and all of the house Maeviir bowed at her feet. She liked that. Once this whole thing is over and the threat of the Valsharess is no more, she would take her house to the new, glorious heights. The Spider Queen will be pleased. Maybe, she mused, she will even start pleasing her goddess by offering a couple of Ellistraee followers as a sacrifice. True, once it's all over the rebels will go back to the surface (a dreadful thought for any decent drow!), and then they will be pretty hard to trace and catch. Still, if Zesyyr knew her mother at all, she must have already placed a few spies among their ranks. Yes, the hearts of Ellistraee followers will be a good way to please Lolth – she must get in touch with those spies sometime. But not just yet, she reminded herself. It was not yet the time for such a thing. She still needed them – Her house could never stand alone against the Valsharess. Not that the rebels added up to much in numbers, but their strength never lied in numbers anyway. No, their strength lied in the fact that they had gathered under their flag many powerful individuals, like that ex-red sister Nathyrra and that male (Imloth, was it?) and of course, the Seer herself. And then, there was also that handsome tiefling … Hmmm. Zesyyr played with that thought for a while. Yes, that one would be most interesting to tame. She was quite certain she could come up with a creative way of making that one stay for a while. … Ah, but this was so delicious. - So many possibilities were unfolding in front of her now that she was a Matron Mother.

Perhaps the only thing that marred the beauty of the moment somewhat was the thought of that _iblith_ female … and the money that went to her pockets. Zesyyr was honestly expecting that that one would perish along with her mother. It turned out however that not only that she didn't do that (a most indecent thing on her part) but she also managed to kill not only her mother but her patron, Tebimar, as well. True, Zesyyr picked her assassin well, but if that one could do it once, what's to stop her from doing it again? Maybe next time someone will hire her to do the same thing to Matron Zesyyr. Oh well, she won't present that kind of a threat to her any time soon – apparently the Seer had plans to keep her quite busy for a while. But still, Zesyyr made a mental note to herself to keep her eye on the _iblith_ anyway … just in case.

That decided, she stretched on her throne once again and sent for her staff. She was a Matron Mother now, and there was much to be done.

* * *

"_Ten thousand It is, then._" She said.

Rizolvir eyed her carefully. "_You drive a hard bargain._" He told her, not bothering to hide his smile as he did.

"_It's a good weapon._" She shrugged. She realized her mistake and winced an instant later as the sharp wave of pain washed over her back.

"_I bet it is._" grinned Rizolvir. "_Anyway,_" he continued "_I cannot pay you all of it at once. I've only 9000 or so in gems. You'll have to come by later to pick up the rest. Tomorrow maybe?_"

"_Nah,_" She waved her hand dismissively, her eyes suddenly lit with a mischievous glint "_No need. Give the rest to Imloth, with my regards. … I hear he has training grounds to repair. _"

Somehow, Rizolvir managed to restrain himself from bursting into laughter. Still a snicker escaped his throat as he handed her the money. "_As you wish, my lady_" He bowed his head. "_If there's ever anything else you need …_" he called after her.

"_O.K_" she replied over her shoulder. "_Oh, and by the way_" she added "_No ladies here, Rizolvir. Just Shi'van, o.k?_"

"_Whatever you say_" he smiled and absently stroked his newly bought scythe. He couldn't wait to see the look on Imloth's face when he gives him the money. And, he absolutely must find a way to see Valen's face when _he_ learns about this. … From a safe distance, that is.

* * *

Many hours later into the night, Shi'van was finally asleep. And soon enough, there came the dreams. There was the hot burning sand of the desert, a lots of people around, watching and shouting. Some were throwing the money. A small sleazy man moved through the crowd. The bets were collected. There was the sun above, so bright it was painful. And, as ever, there were the snakes …

* * *

_Yup, that's right. The main character indeed has her dark secrets and troubled past.Those of you that have the nerves to keep reading willlikely encounter more hints of it in the following chapters, but I still don't know if I should reveal the whole thing by the end of this fic. It just might raise the PG rating somewhat. But I included hints of it anyway, and I did so for a reason. In my opinion, anyone who goes around killing people (and whatnots) wherever they go are most certanlynotquite sane, fantasy setting or not. _


	3. Ghost In The Shell

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van.

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 2**

**A week or so later …**

**Thanks to the powerful salve and a few healing potions she's been provided with, Shi'van has recovered from her wounds quickly. During that time, Nathyrra and her scouting network have been making their way through the western caverns and in due time managed to locate the illihtid settlement. Still, they needed more time to investigate it more deeply, so the Seer decided there was no point in sending Shi'van or anyone else out there just yet. But not about to let Shi'van sit idly either, she spent a couple of days sorting out the reports and trying to figure out where the shadowdancer might be put to best use. Finally, the choice fell on that other island that was called The Isle of The Maker.**

**Meanwhile, Valen and Imloth had their heads put together discussing all the possible scenarios of what might happen next and devising strategies accordingly. They even managed to pull off a successful raid earlier that week that cut off one of the Valsharesses supply lines.**

**Additional troops provided by the house Maeviir have joined the rebel forces guarding both the city and the city gates. Spies placed within those troops, both Zesyyr's and Nathyrra's, have already begun playing their silent games of 'hide-and-seek'.**

**The spies of the Valsharess that were infiltrated within the rebel forces still managed to remain undiscovered …**

**

* * *

**

Valen decided it might be high time for him to stop pacing in circles and, almost literally, biting his tail once he thought he could now actually see that circle imprinted into the floor. Nervously, he sat down and begun tapping his fingers. Where the hell was she? He must have asked himself that question at least a dozen times in the last half an hour.

It has been a good week for him. He and Imloth have accomplished much. That raid was a complete success (he grinned at the memory of it), the defense plans were coming together nicely and both the skill and morale of the troops were heightening with each passing day. Damn it, he was a warrior! This was what he was good at – not babysitting some arrogant half-elf around the Underdark. Another good thing about this past week was that he didn't see much of her either. Whether he was simply too busy or she made a point of keeping out of his sight, either way she wasn't around and gods knew he was happy about it. But now, his holiday was over.

Yesterday morning she came to his room. Remembering his promise to the Seer, he honestly did his best to remain calm at the sight of her grinning face. She was almost fully healed now, he noticed, and looked particularly cheerful. That didn't bide well. "_Hello, brute!_" she greeted him. There! He knew she would tip him off as soon as she opens her mouth! "_Pack up your bags and sharpen your horns – we're going to sniff around that other island of yours in the morning._" That said, she wisely slipped out from the door before he could launch himself into a barrage of curses. And now, he was fully packed and ready and she didn't even bother to show up. They were to leave this morning for crying out loud, and it was almost noon now! "_That's it!_" he snapped pushing the chair away. They were going to go today, even if he had to drag her by the hair (and it was not really an unpleasant thought either).

He stormed out of his room, and almost immediately crashed into Nathyrra.

"_Ouch. Watch It with that armor, will you._" She said rubbing her forehead.

"_Sorry. And when did you come back anyway?_"

"_This morning._" She sized him up. "_And who's rocking your cage?_" Her next sentence came with a sly smirk : "_Had another row with the practice dummies?_"

Valen closed his eyes. "_Just how many people know about it by now?_" he sighed. Then he thought better of it and quickly added. "_Better yet, don't tell me. I don't want to know._"

Nathyrra laughed heartily. Valen rolled his eyes and pushed on down the corridor. Now, Nathyrra knew that he and the half-elf were to leave this morning. Still, he was here, she wasn't, and he was storming in the direction of her room. Nathyrra quickly put two and two together and came to a conclusion that there was a half-elficide about to be committed soon. Swiftly, she turned and followed him.

Baam! The door to Shi'van's room burst open, a furious tiefling standing in them. Her bed was placed by the right wall and the fact that she was still curled-up in it didn't do much to improve his mood.

"_We're leaving! Now!_" he roared at her. At her back, to be more precise, for she was lying with her face to the wall.

"_Not today, Valen._" came a painful sounding whisper from beneath a bush of greenish hair.

"_I've been waiting for you the whole morning!_" he shouted "_You think I'm gonna put up with this!_ _What the hell is your problem!_"

"_The same as every month._" she groaned quietly. Nathyrra, being a female, caught her meaning much sooner then Valen did. In one quick stride she was in the room.

"_Get out, Valen._" She told him.

"_What?_" he said, taken aback by her words. Nathyrra eyed him squarely and let out a deep sigh. She propped on her toes and whispered something in his ear. His eyes popped wide.

"_Oh._" He breathed, his eyes darting from Nathyrra to Shi'van and back.

"_Now out with you._" Nathyrra repeated. She turned him around and marched him out of the room. With the tiefling finally gone, she took a moment to study the curled up form in front of her.

Shortly before Shi'van and Valen left to that first island, Nathyrra heard the reports of possible red sisters' activity in the area and so she had to inform both of them of it. Now, informing Valen was not a problem, he knew about her past already. The half-elf however didn't, and Nathyrra had hoped that it would stay that way too. Unfortunately, Shi'van turned out to be perceptive enough. – Once Nathyrra was through with the briefing (which did mostly consist of her knowledge of the red sisters and the tips on how to fight them), Shi'van merely looked at her and plainly said "_You were one of them, weren't you._" And so the truth came out. Well, then it would be better if she told her the whole story, Nathyrra decided. After about an hour or so, when she finished her tale, Nathyrra prepared herself to face another disgusted rejection. She got quite used to those by now. None came.

"_And this whole thing doesn't bother you?_" she asked.

"_Nope_" came the half-elf's response "_Why the hell should it?_"

"_And you're not worried I might be a spy or something?_"

"_Would you tell me all this if you were? Besides, that Seer of yours ain't stupid. She'd see you through, way back then. And while it's always good to 'Keep your friends close and your enemies even closer', surely she would never let you climb up so high in rank as you did._"

Her words made sense. Still, Nathyrra had to ask one more thing.

"_You know,_" she begun, looking at the distance "_Most of the surfacers I've met so far usually get quite revolted when faced with the truth about the drow customs_".

The last reply she was expecting to hear was laughter, even if it did sound a bit bitter, but laughter was precisely what she got.

"_Not me. And they're just a bunch of hypocrites anyway. Trust me, their ways are not that much different from those of the drow, but at least drow are honest._"

Nathyrra was puzzled. Drow? Honest? Now there was something new.

"_You see, more often then not humans are just as wicked and murderous as any self-respecting drow. Only, they always try to justify their actions by inventing all sorts of laws and rules that, if broken, call for a punishment. And mind you, those punishments are just as bloody and painful as any of the things the drow do, only this way they get to be called lawful and just. So you see, in the end it all comes down to the same thing, it's just that the drow never try to call their actions and ways 'good'. It's more like 'We're evil and proud of it!' with them. I kinda respect that _" Shi'van shrugged. "_Besides, we all do what we need to survive. Take you, for example. Many would likely call you a vicious, ambitious murderess with no sense of loyalty or morale whatsoever. I call you a capable and resourceful female with great potential and the instincts of a survivor to be admired … which, by the way, coupled with your intimate knowledge of the enemy you fight against also makes you a most invaluable addition to the rebel ranks._"

For a half-elf, Shi'van certainly had a rather drowish way of thinking.

Snapping herself back from her thoughts and back into present time, Nathyrra moved closer to the bed.

"_You know, that really wasn't very fair of you. If you knew it was this time of the month, you should have never arranged for your departure to be this morning – especially if you knew it would be this painful._"

"_It usually isn't._" groaned Shi'van in response "_And besides, I wasn't expecting it just yet. It ain't my fault it came early this time._"

"_Well, maybe you could explain that to Valen sometime. He really is out of himself and … and you do enjoy making him furious, don't you?_" accused Nathyrra.

"_Me? He is the goat in this story, not I!_" Shi'van managed a small grin through her pain "_He breaks my shoulder – I don't kill him for it! He wrecks the training grounds – I pay for it! And then he is the one who gets pissed at me._"

Nathyrra couldn't help smirking at this. She slowly shook her head in puzzlement. "_You're a strange woman, Shi'van. I must admit I am still not sure what to make of you._"

"_Just don't make me your enemy, and everything should be just fine _…"

* * *

Shi'van looked at the ceiling in agitation. "_Oh, swell. First the Undermountain, and now this! Just what is it with wizards and dungeons anyway?_" 

She's been lying on this very spot ever since she and Valen arrived hours ago, comfortably propped on her elbows, staring at the Dark River and idly tossing pebbles in the water. As if she was expecting to leave any minute, Valen noted. Which was to be expected, too – Ever since they begun this trip (with a two days delay, due to her …condition) she didn't stop bitching and complaining about why the hell were they going to an island filled with nothing but a walking bunch of scrap metal anyway. And so, when they finally arrived, it was Valen who got to spend most of his day negotiating with the duergar. Not that he was really an embodiment of diplomacy, but embodying some 200 pounds of sheer muscles packed in a six-foot-four frame instead seemed to have served him just as nicely. Eventually, he managed to strike a deal.

The duergar have been here for quite some time now, gathering golem parts … and just about everything else they could get their greedy hands on, and in spite of getting serious beating for their efforts most of the time, they still managed to scavenge the better part of the main floor by now and also to chart out most of it. Apparently, there was a library in there, and also a room with some sort of part-mechanical part-magical device and other such gadgets. Valen was hoping they might find something of use there. He would much prefer that someone more versed in the ways of magic, like Nathyrra for example, was with him now, for he doubted he would be able to even recognize the useful stuff, even if he stepped in it. Well, to be perfectly honest, he would much prefer anyone to that foul-mouthed shadowdancer, but never mind. It wasn't exactly the smartest thing in the world to walk into a heavily trapped golem filled wizard research complex with only so few people, but the duergar have suffered heavy casualties recently and three were the most the duergar leader was willing to send in there again. The good news was that the golems inside were also reduced in number and with many of their limbs taken away. Even that indestructible scavenger golem would be hard pressed to get many of them back together in such a short time which gave him hope that once inside they might not have to face too many of those constructs. Still the golems outnumbered them at least five to one but in the end, he'll have to make do with what he had. And what he had right now was the duergar leader's agreement to allow him into the complex, two male and one female duergar to accompany him and a half-elf to try not to kill in the meantime. Valen's thoughts were irreversibly pulled back to his unwanted companion who was, by the way, still comfortably lying on the bank without a single sign she was planning to move her butt any time soon.

"_So that smart asses like you could ask that._" he said in response to her groaning.

"_Who asked you? I was talking to my sword._" she replied glancing at her black-and-red blade. Not about to let her score this time, Valen gave her a grin.

"_Great! Since you already have experience in talking with pieces of metal, we'll just let you walk in there first and you can then chat it up with the metal guys inside as well._"

An angry glare on her part told him he won this round. Not for long though. Her scowl was almost instantly replaced by a sly smile.

"_Say, Valen. How would you like to take a stroll through Lith My'athar with a pink ribbon on your tail?_"

The look on his face clearly implied that he would **not** like that … which only meant that then _she_ definitely would.

And thus, she emerged victorious from this banter as well. Valen had no doubts that, given an opportunity, she would actually go for it. He spun on his heels and walked away grinding his teeth and counting to 2000 so that he wouldn't spare the golems the trouble of stomping her to death. As he walked he found that, in spite of himself, he had his tail protectively tucked closer to his legs. And maybe he should toss her like a spear at the first golem he sees after all. Should she stick out her tongue, she might even pierce it, too.

* * *

The last one of the metallic beasts crumbled to pieces at his feet. Breathing heavily, Valen wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand and turned to regard the rest of his party. Two duergar warriors, Ralgaan and Hedrack, were also panting heavily. Ralgaan had produced a light healing potion from his backpack and swallowed it in a single gulp. Hedrack, though he too received a few kicks, didn't need one just as yet. He was wielding a big war hammer he found here on one of his previous visits, the hammer that was especially enchanted for fighting golems and other constructs. As a result, he still delivered more damage than he received so far. The third duergar, a silent female named Orthii, had already pulled out a small pickaxe and some other delicate-looking tools and begun dismantling the golems they have just destroyed. Not only profitable, but a smart thing too – less parts they have, longer it will take them to be up and about again. Furthermore, once the duergar were finished with their looting they would drag away what's left, dump it in one of the side rooms and bar the door. It won't stop the scavenger golem from eventually breaking in there and repairing them anyway, but at least it will make its job a bit more difficult. Lifting his gaze from Orthii and her work, Valen set his eyes on the last member of the party. The half-elf stood further away, behind the duergar, comfortably leaned against the wall and with the air of complete disinterest about her. Once she realized that her blades were doing little or no damage at all to the constructs, she didn't even bother to join the fight. … So much for her usefulness. Valen couldn't resist scoffing. 

"_What did the Seer ever see in you, I wonder? You're no leader, not even a soldier; you don't cast, you don't fight …_" he pointedly underlined that last bit, "_And then just what is so special about you anyway?_"

"_Aside from my charm and beauty, you mean?_" Valen rolled his eyes at this. "_Well,_" Shi'van paused a few moments pretending she was thinking hard about his question "_I've got this **really** **special** geas placed on me_" she said ironically "_And if that doesn't cut it, then I'll have you know that your Seer ain't the only one around who's been having visions – I too was granted a vision about all this._"

"_Oh?_" Here was a bit he didn't hear about before.

"_Oh, yes._" Shi'van continued dramatically, "_You see, shortly before I reached that lower part of the Undermountain where Halaster was held, a being of pure energy appeared before me in a flash of light. 'Shi'van,' it said to me in an unearthly voice, 'You have been given a mission! There is a tiefling in Underdark that badly needs to be put in his place, and the gods have chosen you to do it! ' _"

Valen swished his tail wildly. One of these days, he swore to himself, he'll wipe that smug grin off of her face, one of these days … and no jury in the multiverse would ever convict him. Angrily, he spun about and walked down the corridor and away from the giggling shadowdancer, all the while silently thanking whatever gods might be watching that at least the duergar didn't speak the surface common. He was nearing the corner when she called after him.

"_Uhm, Valen …_"

Merciful gods, now what! He slowed his pace a bit, but still didn't stop or turn. "_What?_"

"_I was wondering about something. If I got it right, these duergar said that that golem-thingy repairs not only the other golems, but rebuilds the traps as well, so I guess there's bound to be a fair bunch of those scattered about. You think they're likely to be the deadly kind?_"

If this was another one of her tricks … "_Yeah. Why?_" He still didn't stop.

She shrugged casually. "_'Cause you're about to step into one._"

Valen stopped dead in his tracks. Shi'van pushed herself away from the wall and started towards him. On her way past, she tapped Orthii on the shoulder and motioned for her to follow.

Soon enough, the two females were busily disabling the trap. Judging by what he was able to see, Valen became certain he really wouldn't enjoy stepping in it. So, the half-elf wasn't so idle during the battle after all. Interesting. … Hrmpf.

Many exhausting hours and twice as many golems later, they finally made it to the library. It took them much longer to reach it then they thought it would. The scavenger golem apparently took its duty very seriously, and as a result they were being attacked by wave after wave of freshly reassembled golems. And if that in itself wasn't bad enough, the floors of this place were practically littered with traps, and even Shi'van and Orthii found it hard to disarm all of them while in the same time trying to avoid being stomped to death by their own companions as well as the golems they were fighting against.

As a result, not a single one of them was now without at least a few wounds, so their first order of business as soon as they entered the library and secured the door was some serious patching up. That done, they all wearily helped themselves to some rations. All but Ralgaan that is, for he had his jaw broken and wasn't in a mood for anything, least of all chewing.

Valen was sitting close to the door, his armor removed, and amused himself by observing the spectacle of an angry half-elf pacing the room and cursing. Currently, she was grumbling something about having seen enough golems to last her a lifetime even before she came to this place. Apparently, this had something to do with the events from couple of years ago that involved some sort of a floating city, a lizardoid merchant-slaver and a medusa. Valen didn't manage to make sense of even half of what she was saying. "_Bah. It's all in the book._" She grumbled and launched the aforementioned book his way. He caught it with a deft movement of his hand. He was pretty sure she aimed for the head. Not slowing down a bit, she resumed her bitching, kicking and trashing the occasional pieces of furniture in the process. Things turned pretty funny few moments later when it came to a piece of golem in front of her. Not paying any attention to what she was kicking, she kicked that one too. Instantly, she jumped almost all the way to the ceiling. That brought a barrage of roaring laughter from everybody in the room, even Ralgaan. As it happens, the soft boots she was wearing were invaluable when it came to stalking and moving silently, but left much to be desired in the golem-kicking department.

"_That mother-fuckin' junk-lickin' …_" howling and cradling her foot, the furious shadowdancer launched herself in such a lengthy and creative stream of curses that even the most foul-mouthed baatezu from the streets of Sigil would have to give her credit for it.

"_Whoa, girl! You kiss your mother with those lips?_" Valen asked her, still chuckling.

In an instant, she stiffened. The temperature around her seemed to have dropped several degrees.

"_I'd rather kiss her heart with a blade._" she said darkly. There was a definite undertone of hatred in her voice. "_A charming woman, my mother_" She continued evenly after a short pause, her back still turned to the tiefling. "_You would have liked her. The two of you would've gotten along perfectly, had you ever met._"

"_We would?_" Valen too was no longer smiling.

"_Oh, yes._" She finally spun about to face him, a bitter half-grin on her face. Her voice was dripping with cynism. "_You see, the second I popped out of her womb, she cut my throat!_"

Valen's shock at her words was so complete that he even forgot to notice he had just been called someone who'd enjoy the company of a child killer. Not waiting for him to reply, Shi'van blended into shadows and slipped away to the furthest part of the room. There, she sat down, facing the wall and absently rubbing a delicate tattoo on the left side of her throat. She was in habit of doing that when distracted or deep in thought. Now that gesture had been suddenly given a whole new aspect. Valen swallowed hard. A few hours ago he wanted nothing better than to wipe that grin off her face, but this was not exactly what he had in mind. He knew that the drow priestesses were sometimes sacrificing even their own children to Lolth, but Shi'van was not a drow. Still, the tone of her voice left him with no doubts she was telling the truth. The silence became too uncomfortable to bear. More out of need to break it than anything else, he asked quietly:

"_How did you survive?_"

The shadow in the corner shrugged "_Guess she wasn't too skilled with a blade. The cut still left me mute though. … Pity you haven't met me then, eh?_" Again, she gave him no time to reply, "_Anyway, she thought I was dead and gave me to a servant to dump me out with the rest of the trash._"

"_And that one took pity on you._" Valen concluded. She gave it a snort.

"_You always that romantic, or just on weekends? No, I was dumped all right – A traveling show that was in the city picked me up._"

"_You didn't have it easy, did you?_" Valen said after a while, his voice soft, his words aiming at hers as much as at his own troubled past.

Her agitated shrug ended the conversation – "_So who the fuck did?_"

* * *

"_Not many of us._" murmured the Seer and dismissed the image from the mirror. 

"_Deekin once have old master who eat bad mushrooms and passes gas so bad it kill entire cave full of kobolds. Deekin stick head in water bucket, only reason he alive today._" said the voice from below. The Seer smiled at the little kobold. She could clearly see why Shi'van enjoyed his company so much. "_You thinks they be there long?_"

"_Not too long, I hope. Why do you ask, Deekin?_"

"_Well, Deekin feel much better now. Good enough to go with boss, maybe?_"

"_I am sorry, Deekin, but I'm afraid it is still too early for that._" And truly, the disease the slaad infected the kobold with still wasn't fully healed. In fact, the Seer knew, if there hadn't been for his draconic blood, Deekin would have likely been dead by now - there was too big a gap between the infection and the time he received his first proper treatment. But in spite of it all, there he was – remarkably alive and even eager to hit the road again. "_But we'll see_" she told him, seeing the long face he made "_Maybe you will get back in shape by the time they're back after all._" Deekin brightened up immediately. "_Actually, I honestly hope you will, Deekin … They could surely use your cheerfulness._"

* * *

"_Forty nine, ya say? Fine, let's try it out then!_" said Ralgaan and looked expectantly at Valen, waiting for him to translate. Last night, during their stay in the library, they discovered several books that the duergar missed on their previous visits. Among others, there was a lab journal there that finally gave them some clues as to what that strange machine in the other room really was. Apparently, it served as some sort of golem summoning and golem controlling device, but the journal failed to give them much detail on how it was operated. So now they were experimenting. 

There was only four of them in the room now, for Hedrack was no longer with them. He was struck down by a golem as soon as they got out of the library, and not even his hammer was able to save him. By the time Valen and Ralgaan were through with the construct, it was already too late.

The current situation was this: Valen was standing between the entrance to the room and the machine, Orthii was guarding the door, and Shi'van was at the controls. Ralgaan was standing next to her, glancing at the journal he held.

Shi'van gave Valen a puzzled look. "_Well? What's he ranting about?_"

"_He says you try forty-nine._"

"_O.K. Here goes._"

Turning her attention back to the control panel, Shi'van tried to set it to display the desired numbers. After a while, she succeeded and in a flash of bright yellow light, the scavenger golem materialized in the middle of the room.

"_Quickly! Destroy it!_" screamed Ralgaan. Even if she didn't speak the language, Shi'van understood his meaning. If this worked, the scavenger golem will be no more. If it didn't, then they were in trouble. The scavenger golem was indestructible she was told, and its only purpose was to repair other golems. Given the amount of broken golems that now filled this room, the scavenger would have it's hands pretty full for a while, but once the job was done … Quickly, she pressed the large glowing button in the middle, hoping for the best.

Another flash of light appeared, this time red. It swooped down on the scavenger and soon, engulfed it completely. The almost unbearable stench of burning metal filled the room. When the light finally disappeared, only that awful smell and a small pool of molten metal remained, and the scavenger golem was no more.

A split-second later, Valen felt a sharp jab in his back. Two others followed almost instantly. Damn it! Why the hell wasn't he more careful? He spun about to see Orthii holding her heavy crossbow in both hands, its business end pointed at him. "_We no longer need you now_" she said, loading another set of magical bolts. At the same time, he heard a thud behind him. He didn't have to turn in order to figure out what had happened. Still, he risked a glance.

As soon as Orthii fired her first bolt, Ralgaan crashed himself into Shi'van, his pure weight knocking her down. She didn't have time to dodge, and he was too big for her to roll in defense the way she did when Valen hit her with a flail. And now that the duergar had her pinned to the ground, she couldn't even move. There was no time to reach the frail half-elf before Ralgaan could strangle her. Valen went for it anyway, and promptly got rewarded by another bolt in his side for his effort. "_Just kill the bitch!_" Shi'van screamed at him, but her scream was abruptly cut off as Ralgaan's armored fists descended on her. Ignoring her words, Valen placed both of his feet beneath him in a low crouch and almost launched himself her way, but then he noted something else already had.

A huge shadow in a shape of a dire-wolf sprang out of the darkness and straight into the duergar, its teeth sinking deep into his face. Ralgaan screamed. Much faster than anyone would think his armor would allow, Valen spun about to face Orthii instead. He was still in a semi-crouch when another bolt whistled by. Roaring, he sprang out into attack not in the least interested in giving Orthii a chance to fire the third bolt as well.

Orthii proved to be much faster than a duergar was expected to be. She also proved to be hardy like one however – Valen landed his blow, and she was still alive! It took him several moments to get her in the corner from which she couldn't duck and dodge his blows any more. The sound of Ralgaan's screams from behind told him that Shi'van and her shadow companion had the situation under control as well.

In a few savage flail strikes, Orthii was no more, and soon enough, Ralgaan's screams also stopped. Valen turned around just in time to see the shadow wolf disappearing in the darkness again as Shi'van gave it a friendly stroke on the neck.

"_You look like shit, hedgehog_" she told him when the wolf was gone.

Even with his adrenalin still high, Valen begun to feel the pain of the wounds. Orthii's bolts gave him quite a kick there. But messy as he might have looked at the moment, Shi'van still looked much worse.

"_And you ain't the beauty-queen yourself, either_" he replied.

"_You don't say?_" Her gaze went around the room, settling briefly on the two duergar corpses and on the small pool of metal. "_And then, there were none._" she muttered and eyed the corpses again. His senses still heightened due to the recent battle, Valen noted she gave Ralgaan's disemboweled corpse a particularly ugly look. And just for a moment there, her eyes turned dark and glassy. It lasted only a split-second though, and Valen thought better than to ask. Her gaze already shifted to Orthii anyway, and then back on him.

"_You know, for a distrustful sort, you can sure still be very trusting._" He got the hint. "_Now turn around._"

Valen grinned "_Turn my back to you, you mean? Like, as soon as I'm through with one rogue, I'm to expose my back to another?_"

Shi'van grabbed his upper arm and spun him about. "_Never fear, 'partner'._ _I've enough skeletons in my closet as it is, I've no need to add your corpse on top of them._" She tugged at the bolt in his back as she spoke, giving it a sharp twist as she yanked it free. Valen groaned in pain.

"_Ugh. And maybe I'll take my chances with your backstab after all. Surely that must hurt less than when you're being helpful._"

"_That could be arranged._" She smiled slyly and proceeded to yank the one from his side as well. "_There you go_" she said, after the third, and the final bolt fell on the floor. "_Now all we have to do is to figure out how to stop you from bleeding to death. You're spraying like a fountain, you know._"

"_Yeah_" Valen groaned "_I know. No need to remind me._"

Promptly, he removed his armor and moved to one of the corpses, hoping to find a healing potion or two. He only had one of his own left, and that one won't be enough to even stop the bleeding, let alone start him on the mend. He was relieved to find that the duergar did have a few more. He quaffed two of them immediately and the remembered Shi'van might also need one or two herself. He turned to regard her.

While he was looking for potions, the shadowdancer also amused herself by looting the dead duergar, stripping them of everything that might be of some value. Amongst other things, she picked up both Orthii's crossbow and Ralgaan's (previously Hedrack's) hammer. For a moment there, Valen wondered just where in the Nine Hells was she going to stash those, but then he saw her slipping both of the items in a small bag that hung on her belt. Bag of holding, he realized. Well, that, at least, explained why she never seemed to carry too big a backpack with her. Hopefully, she had enough sense to have a few healing potions and kits packed in there too. Even if she had though, she still didn't pull any of them out. Valen inspected her movements more closely. They were not their usual graceful selves, but rather stiff and shaky instead. Her nose and her forehead were bleeding and she had an entire collection of cuts and bruises that clearly showed even on her brownish skin. She also likely had a few broken ribs, Valen mused. In fact, more then just a few. Skinny and bony as she was, she couldn't have enjoyed a fully grown duergar smashing into her too much. He did have to admit though, she bore her pain well. He took one of the stronger healing potions he found and tossed it her way.

"_Catch! It won't mend your ribs, but …_"

"_Bah. A rib here, a rib there, who gives a damn anyway? I'd trade that bloody scythe for this any old day._" She still had a scar across her back to remind her of her encounter with Tebimar. In spite of her bravado, she did gulp the potion he just gave her "_Yuck! This shit tastes like horse pee! Someday, somebody could try brewing these with a bit of sugar in it … and few drops of lemon wouldn't hurt either. _" She turned to Valen. "_I'm fine. A few bandages and a painkiller, and I'll be in shape in no time._"

Untrue, Valen knew, but said nothing. Instead, he pulled out some bandages and, paying no heed to her protesting and ouching, tightly bound her ribs. "_Great! Now I look like a bloody mummy!_" was all the thanks she cared to give. "_Your turn, brute._"

Valen obediently put himself in a position for her to bandage those of his wounds he couldn't reach himself. Before she begun however, she pulled out a flask from her bag and took a few mouthfuls, making a face as she swallowed. "_Embalming._" she explained with a grin and offered him the flask. He shook his head, but changed his mind as soon as she begun patching him up. It was good stuff too.

"_Just how did that shadow creature of yours appear so quickly anyway? I thought it takes time to summon it forth._" He asked after a while.

"_It's him, not it! And yes, it does. I called him last night, while the rest of you babies were asleep._"

Valen gave her a curious look. _"So you were sure they would attack us even then?_"

"_Nope. I played by a hunch. After all,_" she eyed him squarely, "_people always seem to be trying to kill me. Fact of life … goathead._" That last bit she grumbled under her breath. Still, her voice didn't carry it's usual taunting edge, so Valen let it pass without comment. Shi'van didn't press it either.

Taking a deep sigh, Valen stretched himself on his bedroll and waited for the potions to start working. Shi'van did the same. He knew that the only reason they weren't on each other's throats right now was that they were both seriously wounded. For the first time in his life, he found himself wanting that condition to last. At least for a while. In an "Oh gods, grant me some peace, and the price is not an object" kind of a way that is. Noticing a wolf-shaped shadow slipping out of the dark again and settling itself comfortably in front of the door, Valen closed his eyes and fell asleep.

In the silence of her dreams, something was stirring. A foreshadow of movement lingered within the veils of darkness. It pushed through thick foggy curtains, twisting lazily and gaining shape as it did. A wave of hot air accompanied it and very soon, washed her over, assaulting her senses and filling her nostrils with heavy stench of sickness and decay. The shapes were closer now, gliding through the darkness and reaching out for her, wanting, lusting … She knew what was coming next. Fear clutched at her heart. She tried to scream, but she couldn't. She tried to move, but there was nowhere to go. She tried again but something grabbed her! She was caught! She could move neither her arms nor her legs now, and she was so helpless, so naked, … so exposed. And then, there came the pain. She could feel the unseen fists mercilessly pounding at her, thousands of boots descending on her unprotected body …and the shapes from the darkness came closer still. Soon they will be here and then, and then …

Shi'van woke up in sweat. Her breathing came fast and shallow and her entire body was shivering as she was struggling to shake off the remnants of the dream. Damn it! Everybody had nightmares from time to time, nothing strange about it. But this one was different. This one, she hadn't had in years and she honestly thought she has left it behind. But now, it came back and Shi'van wasn't happy about it in the least. If this one came back, how long than 'till the others follow as well?

Suddenly remembering she was not alone, she quickly spun about and eyed the tiefling. Luckily, he was still asleep. A certain dark shape by the door however, wasn't. "_Karandras!_" she whispered sharply. The shadow wolf's ears shot up. "_What are you still doing here?_" Sharing an emphatic link with his mistress, the beast stretched, yawned and than strolled over to her. As he passed by the tiefling, he sensed Shi'van's agitation and fear of might being seen trembling in her sleep. Wanting to cheer her up and to relax her a bit, Karandras stopped and raised his hind leg in a mock gesture of marking his territory. Valen's eyes snapped open.

It took him few moments to figure out just what in the Nine Hells was he looking at right now. He jumped back as son as he did. His peculiar line of sight from moment ago left him beyond doubt that the shadow wolf was definitely male. Outraged, he reached for his flail. Paying him no heed whatsoever, Karandras put down his leg and nonchalantly strolled away to nuzzle the giggling shadowdancer. "_Bad dog!_" she was saying, waving her index finger at the tip of Karandras' nose, "_Go home._" Casting a sideways glance Valen's way, the shadow wolf licked Shi'van's nose once and obeyed.

And now, they were alone. Shi'van sat up in her bedroll and did her best not to burst into laughter. Valen was standing some ten feet away, blood boiling and red in the face, clutching his flail and trying to decide whether he should hit her or himself with it. Shi'van gave him a quick once over.

"_Once you're through with foaming at the mouth, you might as well come up with some bright suggestions as to what the hell are we going to do now._" she said.

In a remarkable feat of self-control, Valen forced himself to loosen his grip on the flail.

"_Back. What else._" he growled.

"_Through the duergar?_"

"_Ha! Once I faced an entire army of devils with just a handful of demons at my side. … I was the only one to walk out of that battle. _"

"_Wow! How good for you! And how comforting to me. … Prey, tell me, how do you and your ego manage to squeeze into a same room at the same time?_"

… And so it began anew.

They kept hissing at each other for over an hour before they finally came to agree that their best chance would be to try and reach the lower level of the complex, hoping to find another exit from there. They didn't stop arguing and cursing while they were using the machine to destroy the golem that guarded the way down. Than they were standing in front of the door that would lead them to the second level, and they still didn't zip it.

In fact, the only reason they didn't kill each other just yet was that both of them were still not fully healed. But very soon, they will be …

**Hours later …**

**Second level, main room**

"_Have you no sense of right and wrong? No morale at all!_" shouted Valen.

"_No._" replied Shi'van flatly.

Valen narrowed his eyes. "_So I have noticed._"

"_Hey! You sure you're not really an aasimar with a mistake in design?_" She obviously aimed to hurt, but she had no idea just how sore a spot she hit.

He shot her a dangerous glare. "_No. I'm not._"

"_Not sure?_" she said innocently.

"_Not aasimar._" he replied coldly, teeth gritted in anger … and pain.

"_Then stop acting like one already! _" she shouted. "_Just what the hell do you think you're going to do here, eh? Charge straight through an army of stinking flesh parts stitched together, waste everything in your way, grab that power source or whatever and merrily hip-hop back to that son of a plow that calls itself Ferron? Hells, why don't you just take a light stroll and kill the Valsharess too, while you're at it!_"

"_You'd rather side with Aghaaz?_" he hissed.

"_I wouldn't 'rather side' with anybody! They are a pack of autocratic fanatics on one side, and a herd of pathetic idiots on the other. I've neither much liking nor patience for either kind._"

"_You find being a prisoner … a slave, pathetic?_"

"_Yes!_" she snapped, "_And being one for **five hundred years** without doing a shit about it even more so! And just what the hell would you do with a bunch of such weaklings anyway?_"

Weaklings? Valen looked at her in disgust.

"_There is not a single good bone inside you, Shi'van Darkblade_" he spat "_I have a fiery blood of a demon in my veins, but seeing what kind of a creature you are makes even my blood run cold. … Even I have more humanity in me than you._"

"_Humanity?_" she made it sound like it was some kind of a cockroach "_Humanity It was the humans who made me the way I am, tiefling"_ Now it was she who was shouting_ "It was my human mother who cut my throat, humans who taught me to how to steal and kill, humans who taught me the only thing that matters is my own ass and if I don't have a firm hold of it than someone else will Arrogance, ignorance, selfishness, cruelty … **that** is what humanity is about, you idealistic fool of a tiefling!_ _You wanna go and play hero for the golems? Fine! Go! … And take your precious humanity with you!_"

Valen was taken aback by this outburst. The savage, raging fury which her words carried was enough to match even the rage contained in his own blood. Still, his anger was not in the least diminished. What she just said stood against everything he aspired for, everything he believed in and that, he had to admit, disturbed him. He wanted to lash out at her, to hit her, to strangle her, to do anything that would choke the words she said right in her throat. But her rage reminded him too much of his own, and he couldn't. Without a single word, he turned from her and walked away towards Ferron's camp. This issue will have to wait. There were golems waiting for him and he had an attack to organize.

* * *

Observing the image in the mirror, Deekin was writing furiously: 

"_Now the time had come for the mighty hero to face the dreaded beasts at last. Could it be done? Could the beasts be slain? Was there a fresh pair of shorts in the backpack?" _

* * *

_It must be quite clear by now that english is not my first language. Please bare with me, I tried to keep this as literate as I could. My writing style is much, much better in my native tongue... but I guess you'll just have to take my word for it. ;)_

_I will upload no more chapters for now, as I am curious to get some feedback on what I postedso far. The story itself is very long (around 70000 words I think) and I'm currently working on the final piece of it. Since I've got a serious writer's block, I'm hoping that your comments and reviews, be they good or bad, might help me to finish this. Thanks for reading my story. _


	4. Allies

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van… and, from this chapter on, a few others as well, but never mind.

**_To whom it may concern:_** _I was going to fix some minor things in the first few chapters and post them again, but I'm having problems with my internet connection and I barely got this chapter up. So, the fixes will just have to wait a while longer I guess._

I don't know about you, but whenever someone says "drow", the first thing that comes to my mind is "intrigue". Their battle prowess and magical abilities aside, in my opinion it is their capacity for intrigue and the rest of the cloak-and-dagger business that makes the drow as dangerous as they are. That said, forgive me if this chapter might seem be focused on conversations and details, but it was neccecery in order to set some furtherevents in motion. I hope you'llfind it at least a bit… intriguing ;)

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* * *

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The Clash of Shadows

chapter 3 - Allies…

Upon defeating Aghaaz and acquiring the power source, Ferron and his golems agreed to partake in the war against the Valsharess. In several takes, they were transported across the Dark River and to Lith My'athar to join the rebel forces. The demi-lich, formerly known as the Maker, remained undiscovered and undisturbed.

Nathyrra and the Seer have come up with several possible plans for gaining access into the illihtid settlement of Zorvak'mur, but decided to wait a while longer before proceeding with any of them. One of the reasons for this is that they wanted both of their generals to be present for the final strategy designing. Other reasons included bringing the hide-and-seek spying games to a successful conclusion, as well as organizing another scouting party in order to maybe locate the beholder lair and to further investigate the rumors of a small, previously unknown settlement existing further to the southwest.

Needing to synchronize the defense strategies of both of the forces stationed in the city, Imloth was forced to approach the commander of House Maeviir soldiers which inevitably led to heightening the already high tensions between the two fractions.

The animosity between Valen and Shi'van has reached it's peak after their last heated argument in the lower complex, and they haven't exchanged a word since …

Saldrin looked at the young drow disdainfully. For months now, he was forced to put up with the presence of the Seer's people in his own ancestral home, and he just about had enough of it. He was the firstboy of house Maeviir, the son of the late Matron Muryne and one of the highest-ranking commanders of the House army …or what was left of it, anyway. He simply couldn't tolerate the mockery the followers of Ellistraee presented in the face of the true drow society any more. He looked at the young warrior again, and then back at the five or six of his own soldiers gathered around him.

* * *

"_I think I've had enough of these weaklings. How 'bout we give them a lesson?_"

"_I know a few lessons myself._" said a voice from behind "_I'll be more than glad to share them with you._"

Saldrin spun about only to find himself staring into Valen's broad chest. A glance down gave him a full view of a huge flail, the tiefling's hand resting casually on its handle. A look up revealed the tiefling's face and, more pointedly, his cold, hard eyes and a wicked-looking grin below them. Saldrin gulped.

"_Let us go_" he said to his men, doing his best to keep the nervousness out of his voice. "_I've had enough of Ellistraee followers for one day._"

Valen smiled a grim smile as he watched them go. The young drow beside him gave a slight nod of thanks and departed as well. Still patting his flail, Valen made his way across the training grounds.

He found Imloth leaned against the fence observing the training and occasionally shouting out a command, but more pointedly observing a drow warrior on the other side of the courtyard. Valen recognized that one to be Tarnash, the High Commander of the House Maeviir forces and, after Tebimar's death, also their appointed weapon master. Seeing his approach, Imloth turned to greet him.

"_Welcome back. And congratulations. Quite an army you brought back with you, friend_"

The memories of the events that led to those golems being here now were still too fresh in Valen's mind. He just nodded grimly and continued to study the training grounds. Imloth observed him carefully.

"_Wanna have a go?_" he asked the tiefling, pointing his thumb at the row of (newly bought) practice dummies.

Valen shook his head. "_No. I'm going to see the Seer. I just stopped by to see how you're managing …_" he waved a hand at the training grounds "_… all this._"

Imloth smiled "_Pretty well. Better then I expected, given the circumstances._"

"_Well, just keep your eye out on that Saldrin fellow. He's looking for trouble, that one._"

"_Nah,_" Imloth made a dismissive gesture "_He's just going around with his nose up and puffing his chest out like a juvenile rooster, but not much more than that. There's nothing about that one I can't handle, I assure you. …And if the firstboy proves to be too much of a trouble-maker, I'll just send Nathyrra to have a friendly chat with him._" he finished with a sly grin.

"_And what about Tarnash? You plan to ask Nathyrra to have a chat with him too?_"

Imloth gave it a thought. "_N..No. If Tarnash gets out of control, I might call you instead. I'm sure the two of you would have pleasantries to exchange for quite a while … And it would be a sight to behold as well, I suspect._"

"_Well, let's just hope it doesn't come to that._"

"_Yeah. It's always good to hope._"

Giving Imloth one final pat on the shoulder, Valen left.

* * *

"_Mind if I sit in?_" Asked Nathyrra, already pulling a chair towards her.

"_Not at all, my lady!_" Rizolvir said with the broad smile the sight of the beautiful drow female always seemed to bring to his face. "_In fact, I was just leaving … if you do not object, that is_" he added, this time addressing the third person present, a green-haired half-elf sitting opposite to him. "_I've still much to do back at the forge._"

"_Sure, go ahead._" replied Shi'van. After Rizolvir was gone, she turned to Nathyrra. "_What will you drink? I'm buying._"

They were sitting in a public house. Few days ago, after they came back from the Maker's Isle, Shi'van went to Rizolvir with another set of weapons and spoils to sell. Among those, there was this very nice "golem-killing" hammer and also a short sword that had a similar enchantment. Shi'van didn't want to part with that one though, saying something about wanting to be ready in case she ever happened upon another one of those "damned wizards' ideas of a decent hobby". Rizolvir feigned a great disappointment at her "not trusting him as a fair and good paying merchant who knows how to appreciate such a wonderful weapon better than any" and eventually it led to the two of them settling the prices for everything else she brought and taking him out for a drink on top of it to "mend his wounded heart".

"_I'd like a word with you_" Nathyrra said after her drink has been delivered to her.

"_I figured you might._" answered Shi'van, and leaned back. "_Fire away._"

"_I'll be joining my scouts again in a few days. I .. thought it wouldn't hurt if you would join me this time. If nothing else, it could give you a better idea of what Underdark really is._"

Shi'van smiled. "_I'm already quite aware of the Underdark's nature, thank you._"

"_You think so?_" Nathyrra frowned.

"_Yup._"

"_Well, I suppose you might be at that _" Nathyrra continued carefully "_After all, you are a half-drow, aren't you?_" It was a shot in the dark, she knew, but she was pretty confident she was right. A dangerous glare Shi'van gave her told her that she hit the bull's eye.

"_I _" she replied slowly "_will not have the truth of my heritage reveled around here._" Not only did her words sound threatening, they were also spoken in perfect drowish. "_And I know of only one way to keep it from spreading … _"

Now it was Nathyrra's turn to put on a dangerous expression. She was well aware that she might have pushed a bit too far here, but there was no turning back now. Cautiously, she fingered a concealed dagger in her sleeve and said:

"_And that way would be …_"

Shi'van grinned "_Why, kindly asking you not to talk about it too much, of course. What else?_" Nathyrra relaxed, but continued to study the half-elf carefully. Shi'van looked at her curiously "_What did you think I would do, Nathyrra? Kill you for finding it out? Hey, I did hope I could keep it my own little secret, but it's still not something I would kill for. Not worth the trouble. How did you figure it out, by the way?_"

Nathyrra also grinned "_Well … _" Shi'van caught it but a moment later.

"_You didn't! You had no idea if you are right or not, so you made me tell you myself! …I did tell you you're damn perceptive already, didn't I?_"

Nathyrra raised her eyebrows "_Yes. You also told me not to make you my enemy …_"

"_And you didn't._" laughed Shi'van. "_But you will, unless you tell me what was your first clue right now._"

Nathyrra grinned back. "_Well, first of all, this wasn't your first time to claim you are familiar with the Underdark. Also, you seem to be much more at ease around the drow than one would expect a surfacer to be. And then, there is also the matter of your attitude and your views – not too much unlike that of a drow, if you know what I mean._" Nathyrra leaned forward, "_I also noticed you smirking occasionally at something that was being said around you but that you couldn't possibly understand unless you spoke drowish. Last of all, you call your shadow companion Karandras, and that means 'Shadow Hunter' in drowish. It's a bit too much to be just a simple coincidence, don't you think? …Anyway, not much to build my case upon really, but I had a feeling I was right._" she concluded. "_I am curious however, as to where you are really from, and how come you have drow blood in you, if you're coming from the surface?_"

There was a brief period of silence before Shi'van finally spoke "_I was born on the surface in a city called Calimport, if you must know. As for the rest … it's not even worth talking about._"

As much as Shi'van wanted her to believe that there was really nothing to it, Nathyrra knew that that wasn't true. Clearly, everything was not all right. She suspected there is a story behind those emerald eyes, one neither pleasant nor bright, but then again, how different was that from almost every story everyone else here had behind them? She was curious of this particular one however, but knew this wasn't the right time to try and coax it out. Maybe in time, that will come to pass too, but for now, she needed to keep this conversation light-hearted, so she just nodded:

"_I see. Well, I didn't mean to press you anyway. There are a couple of other things I wanted to talk to you about._"

"_Go ahead._"

"_I … I think I already told you I find you quite intriguing, and now even more so. But as I said, even while I would like to know more about you, I won't push …. too much._"

Shi'van chuckled "_See! I told you drow are honest after all!_"

"_Yes, well … Tell me … You seem to be getting on with people around here quite well, Rizolvir, Imloth and so on. I believe, or at least I'd like to believe, that you and I can get along very well too._"

"_I believe we can. I also believe I know where you're headed, but keep going._"

Nathyrra laughed. "_Well, it's not so hard to guess, is it? O.K., straight to the point then. The only one around here who … dislikes you, to put it mildly, is Valen, and it's not like he is the only one to blame for it. Couldn't you just give him a break for a while? _"

"_Hey! It's not my fault he can't take a joke!_"

"_A joke? Yeah, I suppose you could call it that too. Still …_"

"_Look, Nathyrra. The guy's got a temper of a shrew! There's nothing I can do about it, and I don't want to, either. Hells, we all got our own private shit loads of demons within. Gods know we've more than enough of our own to handle, we really don't need to worry about someone else's as well. Bottom line: I've no problems working with him, even if he wants to kill me every half an' hour or so. If he can't cope with me though, it's his problem, not mine. And besides … _" Shi'van grinned widely "…_I must admit teasing him is kinda enjoyable. Most of the time at least. I mean, not just that he is so easy to provoke, with that attitude of his, he's actually asking for it!_"

"_I don't completely agree with you. ...Well, at least you are honest about it. Guess it will have to do for now._" Nathyrra finished her drink and signaled for another one. "_All right. To other matters then._"

Shi'van also ordered another drink. "_So, you're willing to accept an untrustworthy mercenary in your ranks?_"

Nathyrra smiled "_Why not? After all, you are one of the very few people who have no problems with accepting me for what I am, my past and all. Not that I trust you, though. After all, you and I both know you'd turn your back on us and walk away as soon as you got the chance, but as long as you're under that geas …_"

"_Must you remind me of that? Say, any luck finding the beholders yet? Maybe if I could just pick the right eye-beam, the one that does the dispelling, I could just jump in front of it and solve all of my problems!_"

Both females shared a hearty laugh.

"_No, I'm afraid I haven't traced them down just as yet. But who knows? See- You'd better come out with me after all. That way, when we finally find their lair, you'll be the first to know._"

"_You know something, Nathyrra? I think I might actually grow to like you._"

* * *

"_I thought Tarnash was your weapon master now._" the Seer said to Zesyyr.

The young Matron called her for a meeting, and the two of them have been at it for more than two hours now, discussing this and that and whatnot. Patient as she was, even the Seer was beginning to get tired of their pointless blather after a while. Why do the drow have this need to make things complicated? When will they finally tire of their silly little games? Not for a long time, she suspected, as well as she suspected there was some hidden, true reason behind all this, and she begun to wonder if Zesyyr will finally come out with it. Now that she did, the Seer was not happy. Not happy at all. What Zesyyr asked for was no less than one of the Seer's most valuable and dearest associates, namely Valen. Zesyyr claimed that she needed him to act as her bodyguard while he was in the city, for she still had many in her house that were supporting the previous Matron Mother, Muryne.

"_So he is. But now that he is fully engaged in training the troops together with your commander, he simply cannot be by my side often enough._" Zesyyr shot one of her customary sly smiles "_And while I have successfully rooted out most of the unwanted elements in my house, there still remains a possibility of an assassination attempt … and we cannot risk such a thing in the face of what is to come, can we now?_"

"_No, I suppose we cannot at that._" Replied the Seer slowly. "_Still, couldn't you have one of your own trusted commanders act as your bodyguard? The firstboy Saldrin, your brother, is a very capable warrior in his own right, and surely he is more versed in the ways of the drow society than Valen is. He would have much better chances of recognizing an assassination attempt, if one indeed comes, and he would know how to act accordingly, to prevent it even. Surely, Matron Zesyyr, one of your own would be a much better choice._"

Again, Zesyyr smiled slyly.

"_But that is where you are wrong, Seer. Haven't I told you already that the would-be assassin will likely come from the ranks of those who supported my late mother? And might I remind you also that my mother was not honestly devoted to this alliance and thus, neither are her followers. I, however, am and that is precisely the message I need delivered to them. I am the Matron Mother, and my word is the law. Normally, I would never tolerate any opposition from my underlings, and I would quickly dispose of any such troublemakers, but these are not normal times. I cannot afford to loose any more than absolutely necessary, and in the face of the threat that is the Valsharess, you cannot afford to have your allies' ranks diminished either." _

"_And so,_" Zesyyr concluded, perfectly satisfied that she had the Seer cornered with her arguments "_I need one of your own in my house – to serve as a pointed reminder of my will to be a part of this alliance, as well as to protect me from those who would rather turn against me, and in the light of that, also turn against you. And there is no better person to do that, than your tiefling weapon master._"

The Seer hated to admit it, but she was indeed cornered, Zesyyr's arguments made perfect sense. She knew, of course, that there was no real danger of an assassination attempt at all, but that knowledge was of little use to her, for she could not openly dispute Zesyyr's claims to the situation in her own house. So, Zesyyr wanted Valen? It didn't take an intellect over that of a rothe to figure out why, either. She had to find a way out of this, and fast.

"_You are absolutely right, Matron. And indeed, now that you presented the situation so clearly, I shall be more than glad to meet your request. However, you are well aware that Valen is one of my prime associates and is very engaged in all the missions we have, so he is not likely to be able to be at your side for long. Long enough perhaps, to deliver the message, but hardly longer than that. And of course, you are familiar with the fact that I do not lead my people as a Matron Mother does, so the final word in this will have to be his. I do understand the importance of your request, and you can rest assured that I shall do my best to explain it to him as well. Once he understands that it is for the benefit of us all, I am certain he will agree. _"

Phew. There, that will have to do for now. She hoped.

"_I shall await for his answer than. And I would appreciate if I am not kept waiting for too long. There is much at stake here, you know._"

"_Of course, Matron. Now, if you don't mind, I would like your permission to take my leave. After all, I must find Valen as soon as possible, mustn't I?_"

Zesyyr dismissed the Seer with a nod and a wave of her hand. Well, this was not exactly what she was hoping for, but it was a start. Soon, she knew, she will have that tiefling in her house, and soon enough within her grasp as well. And the pleasures she will know then …

* * *

A while later, after she has returned to the temple, the Seer sat down and tried to sort through these disturbing news she just learned. Zesyyr wanted Valen, and obviously wanted him badly. The Seer knew that, even if Lolth was gone, Zesyyr's mind was still the mind of one of the priestesses of the Spider Queen. She was likely fully expecting her goddess to return to her one day, and even if she didn't, she would still continue to follow her doctrine. And in that context, the fact that Zesyyr wanted Valen in her house (and in her bed) was even more disturbing.

The Seer put her chin in her hand. She will have to come up with a sound reason to send Valen out of the city and away from Zesyyr's greedy hands, and she must do so soon. Her best option right now was to send him along with Nathyrra and her scouts, even if it meant he had to work with Shi'van again. She would rather if she could avoid that, for their last mission together had almost turned into a complete disaster. Having the two of them closer than thirty feet or so from one another right now was more dangerous than having a wizard apprentice trying to cast a delayed blast fireball in an alchemist's fire storage. Still, between the problematic shadowdancer and a lustful Matron Mother, she didn't have much choice but to risk it. After all, they will not be out there alone this time. Nathyrra will be with them for one, and Deekin, now fully recovered, as well.

She jumped back on her feet. If she was going to do anything, she must do it fast. First, she must call Nathyrra and instruct her as to how to conveniently spice up her report about the dangers that were lurking in the western caverns, as well as what kinds of rumors she was to plant. She must also tell Valen that he is soon to depart again, but she must not let him know the real reason for it. In spite of what she told Zesyyr, he was quite versed in the ways of the drow, but temperamental as he was, if he knew anything about this ... No, better that he remains ignorant for now, Nathyrra was the only one other than herself who needed to know. After all, it was Nathyrra she was counting on to prolong their stay in the caverns long enough for her to figure out a way to get Valen off the hook. Somehow.

* * *

After Nathyrra went to answer the Seer's sudden summons, Shi'van went to her room. She changed her mind half way there though, and went to see Deeekin instead. Now she was lazily stretched on his bed, while the kobold was sitting at the table, sorting out his notes and humming to himself.

"_Deekin? Ever had a feeling the history is repeating itself?_"

"_Huh? What you says boss?_"

"_I said, did you ever have a feeling that the history is repeating itself?_"

"_Uhm … Deekin not sure what you means, boss._"

"_Well, so far, we had a medusa and a bunch of golems, soon enough we're going to see some slavers again as well. We didn't have the scorpion men, but the driders seem to have covered that part nicely, and we even have a substitute for a dragon of sorts …_" she gave Deekin a loving look "_… though this time in an entirely different context._" She made a pause, trying to remember what else was there. "_And then, of course, we'll also have a bunch of undead soon I think, and we already had Formians back in the Undermountin and .. see what I'm getting at?_"

"_Deekin be glad he misses the medusa-lady this time._" he said brightly.

Shi'van gave a hearty laugh. "_Deekin, you really are a treasure! Bigger than any dragon ever had in his hoard … well, except one that is._"

"_Deekin once had old master roll on top of him and …_"

The sound of Shi'van's laughter continued to bounce off the walls of the room for a long, long time through the night.

* * *

Unaware of the intrigues in which he played the major role unfolding behind his back, Valen crashed into bed. He couldn't fall asleep, though, and his eyes circled the room idly when they fell upon something he completely forgot about. There was a book lying next to his backpack, the same one Shi'van launched at him that day on the golem island. Having nothing better to do, he reached for it. The title read:

"**Shadows of Undrentide**"

_**the epic adventure of the daring hero **_

**by Deekin Scalesinger  
**

Sighing deeply, he turned the page and begun to read.

* * *

**Meanwhile, somewhere in western caverns …**

"_They will return here soon. The traitor, Nathyrra, is still leading them._"

"_What of the others?_"

"_I do not know. Possibly someone else of importance might come along but I do not know who. Perhaps the tiefling will accompany us this time, or maybe some other high-ranking commander._"

"_And the iblith?_"

"_Maybe. As I said, I do not know. Nathyrra does not share information with me._"

"_Hmmm. Perhaps then, we might need another spy … _"

"_No! I will find out more, I just need a bit more time._"

"_Then hurry. We really don't have to put up with your incompetence much longer._"

"_I shall not fail you, my lady._"

"_You'd better not._"

**a bit later...**

"_The rebels are likely going to Zorvak'mur next. I doubt they can accomplish much there. Still, we should prevent them from reaching it at all. Spread out and set an ambush!_"

"_Why is this so important? After all, they're just a rag-tag band with no hopes to win._"

"_Silence! Have you forgotten Sabal and her team! Besides, the traitoress is leading them … and the Valsharess shall be very pleased to learn of her death._"

"_Very well. We shall have her head, then._"

"_Do not forget Sabal, sister. She was a powerful one, yet a tiefling and the iblith defeated her. The iblith the Valsharess also wants dead. _"

"_Then we shall kill that one, too._"

"_No. Our task is to cut down the rebel ranks and to slay Nathyrra. There is another charged with the mission of slaying the iblith._"

"_And who is that?_"

"_Eldath Ra'sin._"

* * *

_This is, as I already said, my first attempt at story telling (aside from DM-ing, but that doesn't count), so I was practically swept off my feet when first reviews begun coming in. I was so out of myself that I managed to spill my coffee on the newspaper, chew raw spinach instead of green salad, almost pour yougurth instead of milk in my dad's coffee and a bunch of other things too embaresing to mention here. All in all, I've had a great day! ;)_

_**Fomalhaut:** As you can see, I took your advice – the story is "angst" now. Once again, thanks for the tips._

_**Celestine:** Yup, I thought it might be interesting too. ;) And I'm not giving those two a break 'till I drive them both completely berserk…_

_**Essence Silverdragon:** Well, here's another chapter as requested. Brace youself, there's plenty more where that came from. _

_**Penname wa Silver B:** No, humans ain't great and humanity is overrated. ;) As for Valen… Well, do you remember a cerait guy called Rambo? A veteran warrior and a lunatic that goes berserk every few secs? Now, add a pair of horns and a tail and put a big flail instead of a gun in his hands, step back and see what you get. …Though, I must point out that Valen still looks much better then old boy Stalone could ever hope to be ;)_

_**shadow0015:** Well, if plots and chars are your thing, then this story is definitely for you... trust me. And I'm so glad at least someone liked that shadowdancing bit.:) As for you two cents... well, it's fairly obvious enough, isn't it? You can e-mail me and we'll agree on how do I send you your money. ;)_

_Again, thank you for all your reviews. I hope I'll keep you entertained for quite a while. And all of you who read this story but didn't post a review… well, thanks for reading, and shame on you for not reviewing… yet! ;)_


	5. and Enemies

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van… and Saldrin ...and Tarnash. There was this drow near Maeviir compound that had some short dialogue - I gave him a name and a personality, so I guess it's fairly safe to claim him my own. ;)

**No big reason to read this… but you might as well give it a shot:**_ You know, with all that bitching about how this is too shallow and that is too linear, one must begin to wonder just why the hell did I play HotU in the first place? Well, I can't deny the fact that it was fun, even with all of the shortcomings it has. And besides, it gave me a pretty good skeleton to put some meat of my story on… _

One of the things that irritated me the most was always that silly time-limit in it. The Valsharess will attack in a matter of days and we're gonna kill off half of the Underdark, find mighty artifacts and be back for a cup of tea before the attack. Yeah, right! Thus, the time line in my fic is changed and this entire run-around-the-Underdark business in fact lasts well over couple of months. I suppose you already noticed that, but I thought I might underline it anyway.

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows  
**  
**chapter 4 - continued**

**…and Enemies  
**

_**Who are your allies? Who are the enemies? **_

_**And just how big a difference is there between them?

* * *

**_

**Western caverns, few days later …**

"_Underdark, Undermountain... why is always 'Under'? It not feels like Deekin be under. It just feels dark and is spooky and smells like old shoes_."

There wasn't a single drow around who could keep his or her face straight at this. Few days after the Seer's meeting with Zesyyr, Nathyrra and her scouts were back in western caverns, this time accompanied by Valen, the half-elf shadowdancer and, most pointedly, a winged kobold whose inspiration for saying things such as this seemed to be limitless. He proved to be a fairly decent companion so far, only it took them quite a while to somehow get him to stop singing. Now he reverted to humming, but that didn't help the fact that by now almost everyone was stuck with that song of his in their heads. Valen was the first to break:

"_Kobold, I have a question for you_."

Deekin turned and stared at Valen with wide, surprised eyes. "_You gots question for Deekin?_" The rest of them, Nathyrra and few other drow who were sitting in the camp at the present, moved closer. This will be an exchange they wouldn't want to miss.

Noticing that, Valen gritted his teeth, but now that he started, he'd better finish. "_Yes, but it is one question and one question only. If you attempt to sidetrack me into some tangent with your inanity I … _"

"_Wow! You read that somewhere, or you're actually capable of putting together such a sentence all by yourself?_"

Valen snapped back to see Shi'van lying in her bedroll. Satisfied with the snickering her remark just caused, she already had her eyes closed again and went back to her "sleep". Wisely deciding to leave the planned half-elficide for later, Valen turned back to Deekin and continued:

"_If you attempt to sidetrack me, I shall be forced to behead you." _

"_You takes Deekin's head off, Deekin not gets to answer your question."_

Even those who paid no attention to the ongoing conversation moved closer now.

"_Yes, well... that is a risk I shall have to take_." Valen continued dryly "_My question is this: this song you were singing, where did you learn it? It's running through my head and I swear it'll drive me mad. Is it a bardic trick meant to lure the enemy into a crazed frenzy?_"

"_Oh, you means the 'Doom song'. Deekin makes it up one day when he be in desert. Deekin and boss be doomed, he thinking_" the kobold replied happily.

Now the snickering became almost as unbearable as the song itself. Valen grinded his teeth and stared at the kobold intently: "_And that's it?_"

"_You gots more than one question?_" replied the kobold innocently."_Deekin always happy to tell tales_."

Nathyrra couldn't take it any more. Shifting her gaze from Valen to Deekin, she burst into laughter. Others followed. Shi'van went so far as to put her face in one of Deekin's wings, laughing so hard she ended up gasping for air …as did most of the others, by the way.

Valen never appreciated being laughed at. He really didn't like to be made fun of. Well, to be downright honest, he hated it. And now he had a whole camp roaring with laughter, both because of the kobold and because of what Shi'van said as well. Merciful gods! Two of them! Valen had a strange feeling he was indeed doomed.

* * *

Later that evening, those gathered in the camp found themselves with little reason to laugh. The red sisters came in hard, slaying a number of them before they even managed to figure out where is the attack coming from. Very soon, they realized, the first strike came from within their own ranks…

* * *

Nathyrra laid dead. More than a dozen of rebels laid scattered about, no more alive than she was. Little comfort did the survivors find in the fact that all of the red sisters were dead as well. It did nothing to change the undeniable fact that Nathyrra was dead. 

Valen was standing over her body. When the attack started, he was the first one to charge straight into the heat of battle. Now, he was cursing himself for not staying closer. The rest of the drow watched him from some ten feet away. Even Deekin didn't come close, but stayed away with the others instead, wondering where was the boss. Valen was standing there, unmoving, for over five minutes. He didn't say a word. The lump in his throat burned painfully. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks. Nathyrra was dead.

* * *

Shi'van observed the camp site from a small recess in the cavern wall. She had no desire to climb down just yet, no desire at all to see Nathyrra's body closer nor to get herself in another row with Valen right now. She had other things on her mind, things that happened long ago …things she preferred not to remember. Karandras nuzzled her hand. Absently, she reached into her bag and produced a golden-white rod. 

"_Take this to Deekin, he'll know what to do with it._" she said to the wolf telepathically, "_And take care not to be seen._"

She watched Karandras go. Well, that was it, she thought – last two charges. She hoped no one else of importance will take to that nasty habit of dying. Not wanting to observe what was about to happen next, she silently slipped out of her hiding place and made her way out in the open caves.

Confident that Karandras will have no trouble finding her, she glided through the shadows wandering what to do next. Maybe she could actually try and indeed find that cavern Valen so ironically mentioned days ago, the one that might lead to the surface. She doubted there really was such a cave, but she was willing to give it a shot anyway. One thing was for certain though – she was not going back. …"_Dream on, girl_" she mocked herself, "_And just where will you go? Roam the Underdark maybe? Sure, just go ahead. Or you could find some beast to jump into it's mouth right away, and spare yourself the trouble._"

Right. So she will have to go back to Lith My'athar eventually … but not yet. Right now, she needed to be alone. Well, she admitted after a while, not entirely alone. Hopefully, Karandras will be joining her soon, unless of course he went back to the shadowplane. After all, shadowplane was his home, she cannot rightfully blame him for preferring to be there most of the time. Maybe Deekin will follow her instead. She honestly hoped he would.

She wondered the caverns aimlessly for hours before finally remembering that if she indeed wanted Deekin to catch up with her, she might as well slow down a bit. Her thoughts a jumble and her mind a haze, she slumped down and waited for her friend to show up. And he'd better not be long, too …

Earlier that evening, during the battle with the red sisters, she thought she saw a familiar face …

* * *

**Lith My'athar, days later...  
**

"_And it never crossed your mind to look for them?_" the Seer asked.

"_No._" answered Valen matter-of-factly.

"_We were to few, Seer. We couldn't afford to separate._" Interrupted Nathyrra before Valen could come out with his reasons for not looking for Deekin and, more pointedly, Shi'van. They didn't need to hear that right now.

"_I see._" said the Seer. This wasn't good, not good at all. In one single attack they lost more than a dozen of seasoned warriors and scouts. They almost lost Nathyrra too. Hadn't it been for Deekin and that resurrection rod … And now the little kobold was also gone. How he managed to slip past Nathyrra no one was sure, but somehow he did. Hopefully, he went in search for Shi'van. At least someone did, she thought sourly. On top of it all, due to the attack the scouting party returned much sooner than it was planned and Zesyyr already informed her she expected Valen to show up in her house as soon as possible. "_Ellistraee have mercy_" she prayed silently "_This is going from bad to worse._"

"_Well, what's done is done._" She finally decided. "_We shall proceed as we have planned as soon as we recuperate. In the meantime …_" she didn't like this, but it had to be done "_Valen. Your presence is requested in the House Maeviir. Matron Zesyyr claims an assassination attempt is being planed. While you're in the city, you shall remain by her side and prevent that from happening.._"

"_But …_"

"_Please, no arguments. It has to be done."_ She looked straight into his eyes. "_We cannot afford to lose another ally now._"

Taking a subtle hint for what it was, Valen backed down. "_I shall do so, Seer._"

"_Good. And while you're there, remind the High Wizard Gulthrys that he too has agreed to play a role in our mission concerning illihtids. Nathyrra, you shall remain with me for now. We must discuss the final version of that plan. Imloth, see if you have any among your troops skilled enough to refill Nathyrra's ranks. … Meeting dismissed._"

After all of them were gone, the Seer turned to Nathyrra. "_I'm so glad I didn't loose you._"

Nathyrra looked at her weary-eyed.: "_So am I, Seer. Still, we lost too many … Had I led them better …_"

"_Hush. Don't blame yourself, Nathyrra. You knew fully well that the attack might come, and you made sure you were prepared as much as you could be._" Said the Seer calmly.

"_It wasn't enough!_" cried Nathyrra. "_I could have prepared better!_"

"_No, you could have not. Do not forget that it was an entire team made up solely out of Red Sisters, while you were the only one we had on our side. I mourn for every last one we lost no less than you do, but they all knew fully well what they're going into when they decided to follow us here. Be calm, Nathyrra. Even in the face of so many losses, you have accomplished a lot. All of the Sisters are dead._"

"_Yes. All of them …_" muttered Nathyrra silently "_… Even me. If it wasn't for Deekin …_" Suddenly, she looked concerned "_Have you been able to trace him with the mirror? Or Shi'van?_"

The Seer shook her head. "_I'm afraid not. But they are both still alive, I am certain of it. I tried scrying on them, but the mirror showed only a haze of colors, as if there was some kind of a barrier that is preventing me from seeing them clearly. It must be that they are in some kind of a strong magic zone … or no magic zone of sorts. As you well know, those are not that uncommon in Underdark. If they were dead, I would get no reading at all._"

"_Shall we search for them, then?_" Asked Nathyrra hopefully, though she knew as well as the Seer that they didn't have soldiers to spare.

"_You really grew fond of those two, haven't you?_" smiled the Seer.

Nathyrra bowed down her head: "_I think so, yes._"

"_Do not worry. Those two are quite capable of taking care of themselves. After all, they have already proven themselves in the past, long before we even met them._" Nathyrra looked at her curiously. "_Ask Valen to give you the book he is reading sometime._" the Seer smiled slyly "_Fascinating reading material, if I may say so myself._"

Nathyrra shot her a brief smile, but soon her face turned sour again "_Yes, Valen. What shall we do about him?_"

The Seer shrugged "_There's nothing we can do. We must trust him to handle this …situation he'll find himself in on his own. Do keep your eye on him, though_" she added "_If things do get out of hand, there might be an assassination attempt after all … _"

"_Well, I won't be running to save Zesyyr from Valen, that's for sure._" grinned Nathyrra

"_Let's just hope it won't come to that._" the Seer said grimly, "_Let us hope it won't._"

* * *

Zesyyr was smiling widely. Tomorrow, the messenger said, weapon master Valen shall be joining you tomorrow. She simply couldn't wait. She already made plans for his stay here, plans, she was sure, he won't be able to resist. And even if he did resist, (her lips curved into a wicked smile) there was something else he certainly won't be able to. Her red glowing eyes caressed a small vial of dark green liquid that she carried around her neck. There was no male who was able to resist this just yet. They all succumbed to it's effects in matter of days, hours even. And so shall the tiefling …Mmmm. If he proves himself to be as good a puppet as she expected him to be, in time she might even find him an more permanent place in her house. Weapon Master, for instance?

Tarnash quickly made his way out of the throne room as soon as his Matron dismissed him. He was present when the Seer's messenger arrived. He wasn't happy with what he heard, but he did take care not to let his dissatisfaction show. He needn't have bothered though. After the message was delivered, Matron Zesyyr hardly even noticed he was in the room. So, there was going to be another weapon master in the house now. Tarnash didn't like that. He knew fully well that he was nowhere near as skilled as the fiery tiefling, and should he prove to be even more to Matron's liking than he is now, Tarnash's position in the house will turn into a very tentative one to say the least. The weapon master grinded his teeth. He was not going to give up his newly earned position that easily, he decided, and there was only one way to assure that. One way or another, the tiefling had to go.

* * *

"_I heard you lost your precious iblith._" Said a mocking voice behind Imloth, just as he was about to summon his troops for an inspection. It shall be a hard task to choose among them those who are able to follow Nathyrra in her expedition to Zorvak'mur. 

"_We didn't. She and some others are still on the scouting mission._" Imloth said without turning to face grinning Saldrin. He wasn't in a very good mood, and the last thing he needed right now was firstboy Maeviir trying to play smart.

"_That's not what I heard._" said the firstboy slyly. He set himself in a pace beside Imloth.

"_Then you heard wrong._" countered Imloth, his voice still sounding casual.

"_Why don't you just face it already, Imloth? This rag-tag bunch of yours will never be real warriors. You're only going to lose more and more of these … pacifists out there._"

Imloth grinned "_You volunteering to go in their stead?_"

"_Hah! You're suggesting that I risk my life for followers of Ellistraee?_" laughed Saldrin.

Imloth shrugged "_Your Matron seems to want that._"

"_Hmph. She'll see the futility of this alliance soon enough, Imloth. And once she does …_"

Imloth stopped in his tracks "_Are you implying a treason, firstboy?_" he said, eyeing Saldrin dangerously.

Saldrin returned the glare "_I am not implying a treason, I'm just stating out the obvious. And the obvious is … _" he looked at Imloth tauntingly "… _that you and your precious Seer bitch are nothing but a pathetic bunch of losers and fools worth only to be fed to the spiders. …And it shall be a sight I'll be glad to observe._"

Faster than the firstboy thought possible, Imloth snapped a dagger from his belt and pressed it to Saldrin's face, slamming him into the wall in the process.

"_That will be difficult to do if you have no eyes to see it with._" he whispered harshly. "_My troops may not be the finest of warriors around... Keep in mind though, that I am._" He stared at the wide-eyed firstboy for another few seconds or so, and then abruptly pushed him free and walked away.

Damn it! He didn't need that. He was upset ever since that disaster in the western caves and having this nasty task ahead of him made his patience even thinner. Still, he cursed himself for giving in to his anger. He must be very nervous indeed if he allowed a mere malicious brat to get to him. But he did, and now he had to face that fact. And the fact was, he has just made an enemy.

**

* * *

**

So there you have it people – two chapters that are, in fact, one, called "Allies… and Enemies" (for some reason, the dots didn't come up grumble ). At first, I wanted to finish this chapter with Shi'van leaving the scene, but I needed to get this last part told here… "Who are your allies? Who are the enemies? And just how big a difference is there between them?" Ponder on it. Oh, and I hope you like Imloth. I always have. ;)

**Penname wa Silver B:** What can I say? I am a regular drow fan(atic), so, as you can already guess, I made those cloak-and-dagger dealings a big and important part of the story. And there's much more to come…

**Kyro:** I'm really glad you too liked Shi'van. Who would think so many people will grow to like my little pet-nutcase? ;) And btw, I dunno if shadowdancers are underrated, but I'm damn sure they're not to be underestimated… ;) I'm also glad you liked the story enough to even post a review. Let's see if I can get you to post some more.

**Oooh:** Now you got me scared! What in the world is a script format? And why would someone want to delete my story? shudder You didn't just get me scared – you made me tremble and sweat too. And as far as Ra'sin goes… Well, stay tuned. He really gave me a hard time while I was playing, so cooked up something particularly nasty for him… ;)

**shadow0015:** Heh, looks like I got you hooked.  I won't be revealing anything definite about Shi'van in quite a while, but there will be a plenty of hints throughout the story. You seem pretty sharp, so I give you a challenge: Here's _my _two cents – now let's see if you manage to figure her out! ;)

**Essence Silverdragon:** Who could blame her indeed? Don't forget though that she is, after all, a Matron Mother, and when her kind decides she wants something…

**Fomalhaut:** Awwww, but Deekin is so cute. Give him a chance. Pleeeease. And Valen will indeed have a thing or two to say about the book, but not right away – I threw so much at him that he hardly finds the time to think, let alone analyze a book. I will let you know however that he spent all night reading it, poor baby. And then in the morning, he was sooo tired, and his eyes were all bloodshot and… Well, let's just say that he looked pretty much like me whenever some enthusiast tries to drag me out of bed before 2 PM. ;)

Oh, and I give up on this 'space between paragraphs' buisness! It simply doesn't work the way I want it to! growl!> Sorry, but this preview thing is going to be the death of me!


	6. Mind Games

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van.

**Attention, please! Tha author has a confession to make: **_About my English andd my writing style - I'm not really hoping to ever write like Gaiman or good old papa Zelazny, that's a bit out of my league I'm afraid._ ;) _To all of you who said my English is o.k. - Thank you! I know my English is good… it's just that I know it can be much, much better. For instance, a friend of mine has no problems reading Shaekspeare while I still struggle somewhat when reading E.A. Poe. _

…**and some credits to give:** _And that very friend, namely Vesna, is the one responsible for what you're reading. She's the poor girl who gets to perform a friendly vivisection of your's truly – a.k.a. weed out my spelling/syntax/grammar mistakes before I post another chapter. There... There is also another friend of mine, Isidora, who also deserves a big, big thanks. She's the one who was (and still is) reading this story as I wrote it, and without her, I think I would've given it up two chapters ago. So, here's to the Isidora, for sticking with me through this madness. And last, but not the least, here is one for Markus, the author of the fantastic "A Hunt Through the Dark 1-5" modules, currently working on the 6th part. Your's truly has been helping him on it for months now and then finally decided to gather the guts and post some work of her own (that's this stuff you're reading, folks! ;) ) In his modules, and I strongly recommend them by the way, you get to play a drow… Hey, where do you think my inspiration for some parts of this story came from? ;)_

_Errr, sorry for the length of this, but it had to be said._

I don't really like using the original game dialogues all that much… except sometimes when it comes to Deekin (and can you blame me? – he's really great! ) But what I do like is to turn some of the game convos upside-down and give them an entirely new aspect…

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 4**

**Mind games**

"_And the faithful kobold companion joined the mighty hero in creeping through the TERRIFYING Underdark! Ummm... no, too overdramatic. Is just dark down here_."

Shi'van smiled. Even in the most dire situations, Deekin could always make her smile. "_That be part of his charm_" as he would likely put it. She couldn't imagine what would the last couple of days be like if he wasn't around. However, cracking jokes won't help either one of them with their sore feet. It was high time to make a camp.

Soon after they did, Deekin pulled out his notes and begun to sort them through. "_It hard to write without good light, boss. Deekin need ink that glow in dark, maybe_..."

Shi'van squinted into the darkness. "_You're right. Remind me to get you some next time we're in the city._"

Deekin looked up at her hopefully "_You means we gets back to the city? That be good. Deekin misses the nice drow lady. And the goat man must finish his story to Deekin too._"

Shi'van snapped back to attention immediately: "_Story! What in the world are you talking about Deekin?_"

"_Well …_" the kobold looked at her innocently "_He too be traveling with you, boss. Deekin must puts him in the book, too._"

Shi'van put on a wounded expression "_Deekin, you broke my heart now. I thought I was the hero in the book, not some no-good dimwit with a set of horns and a tail._"

Deekin was waiting patiently. It didn't take too long. No matter how hard she tried, Shi'van could not deny the fact that she was curious now.. Shaking her head and smirking lightly she said at last: "_All right. Let me see what you wrote so far._"

* * *

Much later that night, Shi'van was still reading. While Deekin was awake the two of them spent time commenting some particular entries, like the one with "vicious bread puddings", but now that her little friend was asleep she found herself more and more entranced in the actual story line, rather than paying attention to Deekin's peculiar style of writing. Moreover, she focused on the notes he made for the future chapters, as well as the descriptions and background details about the characters that appeared in the book. Most of it, she knew, will never make it in the book – her own story never did, which was just as well, for she could think of no one who would want to read that. But Deekin gathered backgrounds anyway. She herself told him most of Nathyrra's story, after getting the permission from her to do so. It appeared however that Deekin was somehow able to pry out some things about Valen too. Mostly bits and pieces, for the tiefling wasn't much for talking about himself, but Deekin was a good listener who could learn much even out of seemingly unimportant details. And it seemed that, one way or another, Deekin did manage to get Valen to tell him a few things himself. And so, Shi'van found herself reading those particular notes. She didn't like what she read. Some parts of it reminded her of her own life too much. 

**

* * *

**

At that same time, Nathyrra and her party finally went to Zorvak'mur. Valen didn't accompany them. Instead, along with the High Wizard Gulthrys whose presence was previously arranged with Matron Zesyyr, the Matron also sent six of her finest female soldiers, all of them versed at least a bit in the ways of magic and their willpower additionally hardened by powerful enchantments that Zesyyr placed on the entire party as well. This was Zesyyr's payment to the Seer for keeping Valen at her side a while longer. The Seer had to agree – the mind-shielding enchantments Zesyyr was able to provide them with were mandatory when dealing with illihtids. 

And so, Nathyrra's party left. They were to go to Zorvak'mur under the guise of potentional thrall buyers. Once inside, Nathyrra and Gulthrys should be able to arrange a meeting with the central brain of the community. The rest was then up to them …

**

* * *

**"_Uhm … boss? Deekin thinks this be working now._" 

Around the time Nathyrra and her party reached Zorvak'mur, Shi'van and Deekin ran across a chasm and a curious looking device standing at the ledge. After being hit by couple of lightnings, two of which she was barely able to dodge, Shi'van let Deekin have a try. Now, some half an' hour and another lightning later, Deekin seemed to have accomplished something. A bridge appeared in front of them.

"_Shall we see what's there, then?_" Shi'van grinned.

"_You thinks that be good idea, boss?_"

Shi'van merely shrugged "_Not worse than aimlessly strolling through the Underdark I suppose. Tell you what - We go across this bridge, carefully of course, in case this might be that cave goathead was blabbing about. If it's not, we're going back to Lith My'athar. Deal?_"

And thus they went …

**

* * *

**"_Someone has activated the bridge!_" reported a drow scout to his leader, a powerfully built warrior wielding a nasty-looking two-bladed sword. 

The leader seemed amused by this news: "_And who might that be?_"

"_A … a kobold, sir._" Replied the somewhat confused scout.

"_A kobold?_"

"_Yes. …A winged kobold._"

"_Winged kobold?_" the warrior laughed "_Are you certain you haven't been drinking?_"

"_A winged kobold, sir._" replied the scout sternly.

"_Very well then. Let us see that kobold of yours ..._"

**

* * *

**Later on, hidden around the bend on the other side of the bridge, Eldath Ra'sin observed a curious pair of companions walking across. One of them was indeed a kobold with wings. Interesting. Those wings will look mighty fine in his trophy collection. It was the other companion however that he was more interested in, a green haired half-elf with tattoos on her upper arms and neck. He smiled widely. 

"_Well, well, what have we here? Seems like our quarry spared us the trouble of running around the Underdark and came to us by herself instead. How very decent and polite of her. Mind me to thank her before I kill her._"

In silence, the drow hunting party retreated back into the passage they came from and swiftly and efficiently begun to lay an ambush.

**

* * *

meanwhile, Lith My'athar... **

"_I am curious_" Zesyyr was saying "_How did you manage to defeat such a powerful demon all by yourself? Skilled as you are in combat, a balor is still not an easy task. Not many can claim such a kill._"

She and Valen were standing at the balcony of the Maeviir compound observing the training grounds below. The tiefling was in her house for over a week now. Ever since he arrived, Zesyyr has been secretly adding a certain potion into his drink. The potion was designed to break one's willpower, to make the victim more susceptible to charms and suggestions, as well as very interested in …sensual matters. And, should that property fail, for there were those who were highly resistant to the potion's effects, the brew was also very addictive. After several days of taking it, should the imbiber skip a dose he would find himself feeling very sick indeed. The consequences of that could be even lethal. Now, Valen was unknowingly drinking the potion for a full week. Whether his willpower was reduced or he got addicted, either way Zesyyr was confident that he was now ready to be served as the main dish in her devious little plan.

Valen's answer snapped her back from her thoughts: "_A balor can be defeated like any other demon…or archdevil for that matter. If you possess a weapon that is enchanted well enough, you can strike through their defenses. Just strike hard_."

Zesyyr smiled in response. She liked his attitude. "_But how did you get out of the Abyss then?_" she purred, moving even closer to him.

"_There are ways out of any plane, if you know where to look_." he answered, not making any attempt to step away from her. Good. She could see the improvement. "_Some portals are natural, some placed long ago and forgotten, some new…I was determined to find one and I did. A marilith who was something of a competitor for Grimash't agreed to allow me to use her portal to Sigil in exchange_," Valen stopped short and blushed. "… _err … in exchange for a favor._"

With a seductive smile, Zesyyr familiarly wrapped her arm around his, her breath hot on his neck as she was saying "_And what kind of a favor might that be?_"

Valen blushed even more deeply. A part of him wondered why was he letting Zesyyr stand so close, but the warmth of her hand around his, her purring voice in his ear and the sweetness of her perfume in his nostrils were having a strange, stunning effect on him. Still, he was too embarrassed to answer her question "_I'd really rather not say, my lady_"

Zesyyr looked straight into his eyes: "_And how 'bout you … show me?_"

Valen gulped and chuckled nervously "_You … you jest, of course my lady."_

"_Why, not at all._" she whispered coyly "_And should that surprise you? You are …very attractive, my dear Valen. Unlike so many others who would cast you aside for your demonic heritage, I find it quite …intriguing._" Gently, she pulled him away from the balcony and towards the room "_Allow me to show you just how intriguing do I find you._"

In spite of himself, Valen found his legs obediently following her.

**

* * *

  
Zorvak'mur, Elder Brain chamber... **

"_I see you have come prepared_" said the tentacle-faced creature telepathically.

Nathyrra smirked "_Of course. We are here to buy thralls, not to become ones._" The illihtid waved it's tentacles agitatedly and without another comment let them in.

There were twenty of them all together, Nathyrra and Gulthrys posing as nobles from some non-descript house, six of Zesyyr's female soldiers posing as their guards and the rest of the drow acted as either the mandatory escort everyone needed when traveling the Underdark or as potentional thralls to be sold at the local market.

Aside from a brief clash with a duergar slaver party some time ago, getting into Zorvak'mur proved to be fairly easy. The hard part will be arranging a meeting with the elder brain. And, should the negotiations go awry, getting out of there might prove to be even harder.

For several days, the small party stayed in the local inn, occasionally taking a stroll through the slave market and also to the slave pens and the arena. In order to keep their guise of nobles looking for some fun as well as the slaves, Nathyrra and Gulthrys were forced to even sign in one of their own warriors into the arena and to place some high bets as well. Originally, it was Valen who was supposed to act as their gladiator, but since he wasn't here, one of Imloth's soldiers had to fill in that role instead. Luckily enough, it turned out that Imloth has trained his troops well, for his warrior emerged victorious … or was it just because it wasn't too difficult an opponent that he faced? Either way, it went well. The slaves however, were an entirely different matter.

There were many slaves in Zorvak'mur. Some of them were illihtid thralls and as such, beyond any help. Others were simply slaves, brought here from the various parts of the Underdark and from the surface as well by numerous slave traders. Most of them weren't brainwashed by the illihtids yet and they might prove to be a fine addition to the Seer's forces. Even though her sources were somewhat limited, Nathyrra bought some of them. She regretted she couldn't buy more, but six or seven was all she could afford. Perhaps she could try and release some of them in secrecy … No, bad idea. She knew that such an attempt would turn into a disaster even if she succeeded (which was, by the way, next to impossible). Still, the thought of it amused her and she did play with it for a while.

All the while, Gulthrys was doing his best to keep his eyes and ears open for the possibility of a meeting with the elder brain. Even though he was highly against this mission from the very beginning and especially his own part in it, now that they were here he preformed his duties as loyally as any of the Seer's people. After a week or so, his efforts were rewarded.

Nathyrra never found out just how did Gulthrys manage to arrange this meeting, but there they were, standing in the lowest chamber of Zorvak'mur and in front of the elder brain itself. The giant, slimy brain-like monstrosity probed her thoughts and soon completely reached into her head as easily as one might walk into an unlocked room. She felt so naked she could cry. Still, the stern discipline all drow were taught while they were still children and the years of training with the Red Sisters made her stand firm against this assault in the privacy of her mind.

"_So, you have come to ask us to forgo the alliance we have struck with the one you call the Valsharess._" the creature said in her mind "_And why would we do that?_"

Nathyrra spent days pondering all the possibilities that might occur during this conversation, so now that the time had come, she had her answer ready "_The Valsharess will break your alliance herself as soon as she finds it convenient. She is known to turn on her allies as soon as she no longer needs them._"

The elder brain seemed to chuckle at these thoughts "_You think we don't know that already? Do you really think that the true thoughts of any lesser creature can remain a secret to the illihtids?_"

Nathyrra was ready for that one too "_Then it is to the advantage of everyone that you are the first ones to break such an unsteady alliance. After all, an alliance with the lesser, even a powerful one such as the Valsharess, surely cannot be too obliging to the illihtids._"

"_I sense you have given this meeting of ours much thought, lesser one_" chuckled the creature again. "_Very well. Supposing that we are willing to do this, what do you have to offer in return?_"

This was the tricky part "_That depends on what you would ask of us._"

The brain seemed even more amused now "_We could ask, perhaps, that for starters you leave all of your guards here to become our thralls._" Nathyrra tensed. "_Ah, but I can sense you would not be willing to do that, would you lesser one?_" teased the brain "_So be it. They would be too small a reward for what you're asking of us anyway._" There was a short pause before the brain continued. Purely theatrical, of course, for the creature knew very well what it wanted from the very beginning. "_Perhaps there is something we could ask of you after all. There seems to be a strange town that appeared recently on one of the islands east of here. The mysterious nature of the town as well as it's sudden appearance imply there was a great arcane magic at work there. We want the source of that magic. …But you already know all about it, don't you lesser one?_"

Damn it! The bloody creature wanted the bloody mirror! This was one possibility she wasn't prepared for. What the hell was she to do now!

Sensing her agitation, the brain continued slyly "_Yes, we can see the difficulties of such a request. Keep in mind though, that your own is no less difficult than ours._"

"_I …I will have to consult with my leader first._" stammered Nathyrra

"_And once your leader refuses to hand over the mirror to us? What then, lesser one? You see, the value of that mirror far overweighs the value of our alliance with the Valsharess. Should we remain allied with her however, you and yours shall surely be defeated and we shall have the mirror either way. It is only our good will that we might forgo that alliance should you bring the artifact to us willingly._"

Nathyrra could not argue with the pure logic of the elder brain's reasoning. She was about to give in to it's words when, unexpectedly, Gulthrys joined in their telepathic argument. "_You are correct, of course … save for one little thing. The Valsharess is a mighty one, and once we are defeated what's to stop her from taking the mirror herself? You have not witnessed her full might as we have. Trust me, you might find yourself in a position to negotiate with that mirror for your very lives … and to fail in those negotiations too._"

The elder brain snapped it's thoughts to the wizard angrily, just the kind of a short break Nathyrra needed to steady herself and start thinking clearly again. One desperate idea crossed her mind, and she used it: "_We need the mirror to stand a chance against the Valsharess!_" her thoughts screamed at the elder brain a second before the creature would imply it's mental powers to crush the wizard mindless "_With the mirror in our possession and without your illihtids at her side the Valsharess shall be defeated, and then all the scattered remnants of her army will roam the Underdark ready for picking by all the illihtids and slavers who happen upon them. And if the Valsharess wins the day, she will still need time to recuperate from her losses and you shall again have the chance to get the mirror._"

"_But should you emerge victorious, it shall be you who get to keep the mirror._" replied the elder brain, it's thoughts once again focusing on Nathyrra "_And we already said that no thralls are worthy of such a prize to us._"

Damn it, the brain had her again! Her mind worked furiously, trying to find a way out of this web of rhetoric: "_But if we are victorious, we too shall be weakened. Surely you will have no troubles getting the mirror from us then. …One way or another, it is still your best option to let us leave now and wait for our leader's reply to your request. If we bring you the mirror, then I trust you shall keep your end of the bargain and forgo your alliance with the Valsharess. If you don't get the mirror, there is nothing that can stop you from prying it out of our cold dead hands … though I still repeat that that would be easier to achieve if you do not side with the Valsharess . That way, either hers or our forces will be week enough for you to have an easy battle with, regardless of which one of us wins this war._" Nathyrra blurted it all out in a single, jumbled thought. Now, she could just wait and hope for the best.

After a long, agonizing minute Nathyrra got a weird sensation inside her mind. It was almost as … as if the elder brain was laughing! …And laugh it did! Beneath that laughter, she was able to sense that she and her party were granted the permission to leave now. Without questioning the opportunity, she signaled to Gulthrys to follow her out.

And so, the very next day the drow left Zorvak'mur. The elder brain allowed them to leave and now it was waiting for their answer. Whether they delivered the mirror or not was of little consequence to the illihtids. One way or another, the tentacle-headed psionics were confident that the only ones to emerge truly victorious from the oncoming conflict will be them.

**

* * *

  
Underdark...**

It was four or five days since they were ambushed in front of the beholder layer entrance by Eldath Ra'sin and his party. Only Deekin's quick mind and the right choice of spells got them out of it alive.

Ever since, they were playing hide-and-seek through the Underdark. The drow were good hunters and Underdark was their natural territory. Still, with Deekin and Karandras by her side, Shi'van managed to take them out one by one over these last couple of days untill only one drow remained. She pointedly saved that one for the end…The leader of the party… Eldath Ra'sin. She wanted him, and she wanted him alive. She knew him once, long time ago… in another life. And his was the face she would never forget.

And now, she had him defeated at last, his barely conscious body lying at her feet. She gave him a dark, wicked smile "_And so we meet again, Eldath. We have a lot of catching up to do, you and… and I promise you, you won't like it._"

Deekin was staring at his "boss" intently. She looked very evil right now.

"_Go to the city, Deekin. Tell them we found the beholders. Go – I'll follow you soon._"

"_Come soon, boss_" the kobold quietly muttered and hurriedly departed. He had no desire to see or hear the things that were going to happen next.

As soon as Deekin was away far enough, the screaming begun.

**

* * *

**  
_Well, here is where I began to wonder if I'm maybe turning Shi'van into too much of an uber-character. I mean, an entire drow hunting party! Still, give the girl some credit. She is, after all, no minor shadowdancer herself and besides, she had Deekin with her. My guess is that a team like that does, in fact, have a chance to pull it off… and it's not like they met yesterday and are still getting the hang of working together._

_Now, I've a question for you: If you played Baldur's Gate 2, how many load-games it took you until you wriggled your way out of the illihtid layer? Took me about five. That said, how beliaveble is then that part of the game where a PC and one or two henchies cut their way through Zorvak'mur like through only so much butter? Well, there is a reason the illihtids are the most feared race of the Underdark, even above the drow. In this and in the following chapter, I tried to pay an homage to what the illihtids truly are… and not a "cheaply rendered cross-over between an ocelot and a dancing crocodile". ( Penname wa Silver B, this one's for you! ;) ) _

**shadow0015:** Fair enough. I'll keep posting, you keep reading… we'll see if your ideas were correct. ;) And btw, you're fast – your review came barely twenty minutes after I got chapter 5 up. As for death threats... entire chapter coming out bold and underlined... three times in a row... no spacing... for a whole hour... I have much more then just threats on my mind right now.

**Penname wa Silver B** Well, that's pretty much how this whole thing started – All those replies I always wanted my PC to say but was never given that option… ;)

**Night Vendiviel:** Sounds like if your char and mine ever met, there'd be some serious sparks flying. ;) Glad you liked it, and don't let your boss catch you! And as far as Valen and Shi'van go... Well, let's just say there'll be some very weird things going on between them.

**Jefepato:** Guess it's clear by now, but just for the record – I hate goodie-two-shoes! And you're right, half-drow do look very drowish… for the most part. But there are exceptions (about 5) that take after their human parents in apperiance. Kinda like those white tigers… Genetics and stuff… Hey, I'm a biologist, so trust me on this one. ;)

_One last thing – Next chapter's kinda long, so make sure you have enough coffee ready when I get it up! ;)_


	7. Plot And Poison

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van. The poison in question, I took from one of R. A. Salvatore's "Drizztologies", but I gave it the name… and a rather devious purpose ;)

**Important**_ I'm not sure, but this chapter might as well be rated R because of the last part. If you think so, do tell me. Know however that there is a point in that last bit and I had to say it the way I did…_

Near the beginning I mention golem "power sources" (plural!). Well, thinking about that entire golem story, it occurred to me that Ferron and his crowd would certainly crave for an even higher level of freedom. Given that, plus all the books on golem creation found at the Island of the Maker, why wouldn't it be possible to actually reproduce that powersource and give a small one to each golem? I think that between Rizolvir, the Seer, Gulthrys and Nathyrra (casters all of them, and one a highly skilled craftsman) it wouldn't be that difficult to pull it off.

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 4**

**Plot And Poison  
**

**  
On their way back from Zorvak'mur, Nathyrra's party encountered Shi'van near the passage leading to the outer gates of Lith My'athar. Beside Shi'van, they also found a barely alive and terribly tortured drow Shi'van claimed was one of the Valsharesses prime huntsmen. They proceeded into the city hurriedly in order to bring the news of their visit to Zorvak'mur, as well as a stray half-elf, back to the Seer. Due to his many wounds, Eldath Ra'sin didn't make it.**

**Meanwhile, Valen fell more and more under Zesyyr's influence. Aside from feeding him the potion regularly and making him share her bed, Zesyyr was also subtly coaxing out the demon in him again. To those who knew the tiefling it was obvious that something was wrong. He became more violent lately and his temper seemed to have grown even worse than before. He also had brief moments of dizziness whenever he spent more than a few days out of the House Maeviir. Though the Seer could clearly see what was happening, there was nothing she could do about it, for any act on her part might mean the end of the tentative alliance she had with Zesyyr and her house.**

**The latest reports from the scouts indicated that Valsharesses army was on the move…**

* * *

They were gathered in the temple standing over the maps of western caverns. The Seer was sitting at the table, Imloth standing protectively by her side. Opposite to her sat Nathyrra, and next to her was Deekin, propped up in the chair in an attempt to see what's going on. Valen was standing across the room, leaned on the wall and feeling slightly dizzy, which never stopped him from staring at Shi'van with almost open enmity. Shi'van paid him no heed whatsoever and stared at the maps intently. Sergeant Ossyr was also present, him being the one who would have to hold the first lines of defense once the Valsharess attacks. Lastly, there was Tarnash. Usually, the Weapon Master of the House Maeviir wasn't invited to these meetings, but since the opposing army was on the move and the time was short, his presence as another troop commander became necessary as well. 

Two new red pins have been added to the maps – one that marked the exact location of the little settlement to the southwest and the other one, added just now, that marked the entrance to the beholder lair. The conversation currently concerned the possibility of an attack on that place as well as the recent events in Zorvak'mur. Imloth, Tarnash and Osyyr, all experienced in battling beholders and illihtids alike, argued that they simply could not muster the force needed to attack and let alone defeat either one of the two possible targets. Still, all three of them knew that something had to be done about those monsters if they were to have any hope at all in repelling the oncoming forces. The forces in question were still too far away, but they needed to plan well in advance. And it was almost impossible to come up with any defense plan with even slight chances of success while all three of Valsharesses prime allies were still intact.

"_I still say we should take a force of capable warriors and storm those beholders as soon as possible._" remarked Valen from his corner. His eagerness to grasp every opportunity to launch himself into a killing spree seemed to have heightened considerably over the last couple of days.

"_You know it won't work that way, Valen!_" Imloth snapped. His last two weeks were hell. First the Red Sisters attack on Nathyrra, then the firstboy Maeviir, then this new situation with Zorvak'mur and on top of it all, Valen's latest displays of bloodthirst. Imloth wasn't just nervous, he was positively close to losing it.

"_But maybe,_" Tarnash came in unexpectedly, "_if a few of the mightiest among us went there with powerful magic-negating enchantments and protective spells, they might be able to find and slay the Eye Tyrant. And without the Eye Tyrant leading them, the rest of the beholders would likely not stick to the alliance._"

Tarnash already attempted an attack on Valen twice. The idea was to carefully coax the would-be assassins to have a go at the Matron Mother so that the tiefling would be forced into battle. Once engaged, he would then be an easy target for Tarnash or one of his supporters, and should the tiefling accidentally die in battle while trying to defend the Matron Mother, no one, Zesyyr included, would be asking too many questions. After all, Valen was still mortal, just like everyone else. Both of the attempts failed however, for Valen proved to be even mightier than his reputation suggested. So now, Tarnash had to find another way to get rid of the unwanted tiefling. He already had one plan, which was the reason why he came to see the Seer earlier, right before this meeting. Now, with this beholder business apparently being the topic of the day, another possibility for removing Valen from the house presented itself …and Tarnash was not about to let it slip by unused. It wasn't too hard to guess who did he have in mind when he said "mightiest among us" … nor how much hopes for survival that "mightiest" had.

"_It is a possibility_" the Seer eyed Tarnash as she spoke. She knew very well what he had in mind and she made a point to show him that she knew it. "_Perhaps House Maeviir will prove useful in that matter, just like it did in providing proper enchantments for the meeting with the illihtids. Still, it will take some time to come up with proper choice of spells and items that might provide sufficient protection to those who would go on that mission. …Since this was your idea, maybe you yourself would like to see it through?_"

Tarnash's eyebrows raised. The Seer just informed him that she was on to him and that, should Valen be sent on this mission, then by Ellistraee, so would he. He hid his disturbing thoughts beneath a grin "_Perhaps I might at that. But, as you yourself said, it will take time to organize it all. Maybe until then we should focus on the illihtids instead._"

Nathyrra glared at him threateningly "_And do you have any smart suggestions as to how to defeat an entire illihtid community together with all the thralls and a central brain on top?_" Her next words were addressed to the Seer "_Those enchantments we had got us in there once, but there are no spells powerful enough to continually defeat their mind blasts in battle, let alone to counter their domination and confusion attacks._"

"_Maybe Ferron and his golems could help us there._" Osyyr said suddenly "_Even with those power sources they have, their minds are still not anything like ours, and surely not something the illihtids are prepared to deal with. On top of that, they are also physically overwhelming so the thralls, even umber hulk thralls, won't be too much of a trouble to them. So basically, all they might need are a few additional protections from physical damage alone, and those spells are neither rare nor hard to prepare._"

All eyes turned to him as he spoke. He had a point, a good point. Why didn't they think of it earlier? … Well, there was this one little thing.

"_Good idea, Osyyr_" the Seer told him "_Only, how are we to get all of them there? We cannot march them through the Underdark, that's for sure. Firstly, it would take too long and secondly, the illihtids will learn about it long before they arrive and prepare accordingly. I am sorry, Osyyr. It is a good idea, but we simply cannot transport Ferron and the others there._"

"_Maybe we can, Seer..._"

Aside from a brief sentence or two concerning the location of the beholders' lair (the instructions on how to operate the bridge already being provided by Deekin), Shi'van said barely a word since she came back from her little tour through the Underdark. Now, unexpectedly, she grinned wickedly at the maps and repeated "_Maybe we can._"

All eyes turned in her direction now, but before anyone could ask her anything she waved her hand dismissively and addressed the Seer "_I will tell you in private. …Later._"

The Seer eyed her curiously "_Very well then. Meeting over, everybody. I shall call on another one when I have … more information. As for now, keep arranging the defenses as we agreed and put your minds to work over this beholder business._"

* * *

When only Deekin and Shi'van remained in the room, the Seer placed three glasses on the table and a poured them some of the fine green-glowing drow vine. Then she sat down and observed the shadowdancer carefully. 

Ever since she came back, Shi'van looked …different in a way. She seemed to be darker somehow, not just her mood but her entire stance as well now hinted at something deep and dangerous lurking inside her. Mostly, it showed in the eyes. They were like two polished pieces of dark glass, clouded, distant and cold. But inside them, a shadow of dark fire flickered occasionally, and when it did, it didn't promise anything good to the world. The Seer wondered what happened to her to change her so much. No, not change, she corrected herself, more like to bring back something that was buried inside but was always a part of her nevertheless. She heard, of course, the report from Nathyrra, the one with the full description of the state the drow they found with her was in. The Seer didn't like what she heard. She wasn't supporting any kind of cruelty, not even as a way of gaining information, and what Shi'van did to her prisoner (over the span of six days, no less) made her stomach turn in revolt. She didn't think the frail half-elf had such capacity for dealing pain. And this whole situation reminded her too much of another one she had, years ago, when she first met Valen. She frowned when he came into her thoughts. She must get him out of Zesyyr's grasp, and fast, before it's too late. Perhaps, the thought occurred to her, Shi'van might prove to be useful in that matter too, but that was something that will have to come later. First things first, she reminded herself. There was something about transporting golems that she had to find out.

"_So, what do you have in mind?_"

Shi'van sipped her vine. "_First of all, it is something I was not willing to share with anyone, but since the situation is as it is, I am forced to share it with you now._" She looked up to the Seer "_And only with you._"

That said, Shi'van produced a small pouch of red glowing gems, the so-called rogue stones, and a small, curious looking item. She proceeded to explain to the Seer the ability of that item to create "bindings" – portals of a sort that were all connected to some extra-planar pocket where a mysterious creature she called simply "The Reaper" resided. By placing one binding point here and the other one near the illihtids, the golems would be able to step through the first one, emerge in the Realm of The Reaper, exit through the astral gate there, and come out again at the other binding. And, of course, as long as the bindings remained, they could also use them to come back.

The Seer stared at the artifact. She was positively stunned. That thing was so useful she could not begin to find the words for it. Using that, they will actually be able to strike at the illihtids and even hope to win! And just to think Shi'van had it all this time …and never said a thing. The Seer almost brought that up, but then thought better of it. She was willing to put it to use now, and that was the only thing that mattered at the moment. Right. To this other thing, then.

"_Shi'van …I need to talk to you about Valen. You see, after you went to the Underdark and he, Nathyrra and the remaining scouts came back to the city … _"

* * *

Finally, after almost an hour of talking, mostly done by the Seer herself, Shi'van was gone. The Seer laid down to bed, satisfied that she had done the right thing in telling Shi'van about the situation with Valen. Neither Nathyrra nor the Seer herself could do much about it. Their hands were tied by the need to keep the alliance with Zesyyr alive and functioning. But Shi'van was not one of them. Though she's been working for them for more than two months now, she was still just a mercenary, thrown here through a bizarre chain of events and with no loyalties owed to anyone but herself. Should she make a move, Zesyyr would suspect that she acted by the Seer's instructions, but the Seer could always deny having had anything to do with it and claim that Shi'van acted out of her own desires instead. 

Of course Zesyyr would not believe a word of it, but she would have to accept it, just as the Seer was forced to accept Zesyyr's claims of the possible assassination attempts. The attempts that, by the way, have indeed happened afterwards, but those were inspired by none other than Tarnash. She knew that to be the truth, for he had openly admitted it to her himself earlier this day. The Seer understood his reasons for doing that perfectly. He was out of options, and he turned to her as a last resort for getting Valen out of the House, knowing that the Seer will neither deny him her help nor sell him out to his Matron, for she herself wanted that very same thing.

So now, it was up to Shi'van and Nathyrra to come up with some way of getting Valen out of there. The first step was already made, for Shi'van agreed that, instead of Deekin, Valen should accompany her when she goes to place the second binding near the entrance to Zorvak'mur. And it shouldn't be too difficult to arrange that because, after all, Underdark was a dangerous place and the mission was critical and … The Seer played out in her head her next meeting with Zesyyr in advance. It will be tiring, she knew it, but she had no doubts that it would be successful as well. Hopefully, this whole mess will have that same outcome.

There was one thing she was curious about, though she knew better than to ask. Why did Shi'van agree to try and do this? While she never disliked Valen as much as he couldn't stand the sight of her, he was most certainly not on her top ten favorite people list either (well, she doubted there were that many on that list anyway, but never mind). The Seer could think of a few possible reasons, but it was all just guessing. Either way, the shadowdancer agreed to try and help her with this, and the Seer had to trust her to see it through successfully.

Privately, she hoped for another thing. Valen was on his way to lose his hard-gained humanity again. Maybe spending more time with Shi'van could change that. Whether will he see her as a kindred spirit, for the Seer suspected that those two were more alike than either one of them would ever care to admit, or as his complete opposite which was, in a way, also true; either way Valen will only stand to gain in that relationship. Should he see her as someone with a problem similar to his own, with those constant shifts from light to darkness and back again, he might find strength in the fact that he is not alone in his struggles for balance and peace. Should he see her as his opposite, he might then find himself looking at the dark, evil mirror of his own soul. He already had a similar experience help him pull himself out of the darkness once; it might as well be that it will help him again. At least, the Seer hoped it would help.

* * *

The object of the Seer's thoughts was walking across the training grounds at the present. He was in a hurry to get back to the House - he wasn't feeling too good again. Aside from that, he was also angry. 

Recently, he begun to wonder why did the Seer come here in the first place. After all, this wasn't her battle until she decided to make it so. And why did he follow her down here too? When he shared these thoughts with Zesyyr some time ago, she suggested that maybe the Seer was having some kind of a hold of him, some charm of sorts that made him follow her around like a puppy. He didn't believe that. At least he didn't want to believe. The Seer would never do a thing like that. Still, after his conversation with Zesyyr, he wasn't so sure any more. He couldn't quite remember what her arguments were, but he knew they were sound when she presented them.

And then, there was also that damned half-elf again. He had honestly hoped that she got lost and eaten somewhere in the Underdark and that he was finally rid of her once and for all, but there she was – back again and ready to get on his nerves once more, as if she never left at all. Gods, how he hated her! Zesyyr was the only one who understood him about that. And now, as if her mere presence back in the city wasn't enough, he has just been informed that he was to travel with her again. Enraged at the mere thought of it, he suddenly grabbed his flail and slammed it at the nearest dummy.

"_Valen? Are you all right?_" asked the voice behind him.

Sppining to face Imloth, he shouted angrily. "_I'm all right, damn it! Just get the hell out of my way!_"

Imloth took a step back, stunned by this outburst. Seeing his friend back away from him, Valen shook his head, surprised at his outburst as well. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he reached for the fence to steady himself.

"_I… I'm sorry Imloth. I… don't know what came over me. I'm sorry._"

Imloth stepped closer, honestly concerned about his friend "_Are you sure you're all right?_"

"_Yes. It's just that I've been …nervous lately. I think this whole Valsharess business is finally getting to me._" Valen forced out a weary smile "_But don't worry, I'll be fine in no time. I just need some sleep, that's all_"

"_What you need, my friend, _" thought Imloth as the tiefling departed "_is a kick in the face, a bucket of water to dip that heated head of yours in and a good healer to cure you of whatever that bitch is doing to you._"

Unbeknownst to both Imloth and Valen, that very cure was already being prepared. And while "the healer" to deliver it might be of the most peculiar kind they have yet seen, the kick in the face was certain not to be left out.

* * *

"_Yes, that could be it. Crossed my mind too, couple of times_" Nathyrra was saying. She and Shi'van were standing in a quiet corner near the forge and discussing this latest problem with Valen. They both agreed that Valen is most likely being drugged. The trouble was, they weren't sure what kind of drug was being used, and giving him the wrong antidote might as well kill him. 

"_Ut'silt-elg'd'sinss_" said Shi'van.

Nathyrra blinked. The addictive aphrodisiacs were not uncommon among the drow and quite a number of surface communities as well, but this was different. The name of this particular drug meant "Death Love" with the prefix "ut'silti" which meant "to shackle" or "to enslave". It was a name of a special and highly potent potion that Nathyrra knew was previously used only by the females of the now extinct House Faen Tlabbar, once the Fourth House of Menzoberanzzan. How did Shi'van even know about it? And, if Shi'van's guess was correct, how did Zesyyr get her hands on it? She looked at the half-elf with renewed curiosity.

"_Are you certain?_"

"_Nope. I'm just guessing. But all the symptoms are there …_"

"_You are familiar with the symptoms of Ut'silt-elg'd'sinss? _" Nathyrra had to ask.

Shi'van sighed "_I'm familiar with the symptoms of many drugs, Nathyrra. I had a brush with many of them, first hand._"

"_You were an addict?_"

Shi'van gave her a tired smile "_You know how we all sometimes need something to hold on to? Well, let's just say I held onto many things in my life. First, I was holding a bottle …very firmly. Then, I held on to drugs, all sorts and kinds I could get my hands on. …In the end, I ended up mostly holding just my own head… _" she put her face in her hands "_…like this._"

"_Glad to see you got off the hook then._" Nathyrra said cautiously, "_But still… This is a drow drug you are talking about. Of a very special kind and also partly magical._"

"_Yes, Nathyrra, I've been to Menzoberanzzan if that's what you're asking. And I've seen this drug at work._" Her voice was still friendly, but the look in her eyes told Nathyrra clearly that should she press this matter further than absolutely necessary, this conversation would turn very nasty.

"_All right. Do you also happen to know of any efficient antidote? As far as I know, none has ever been made …and since the ingredients of the drug were also being kept in outmost secrecy, we can hardly hope to make something ourselves._"

"_True. But do we have a choice? Maybe if you could guess at least some of the ingredients of Ut'silt-elg'd'sinss, you could try brewing something to counter it._"

"_Now that's way too far fetched, Shi'van. I am an expert in poisons and such, but this …I'm afraid it's a bit out of my league._"

"_You got a better idea?_"

"_No. The only thing that might help would be to somehow get our hands on the sample of Ut'silt-elg'd'sinss. If I had that, then I might be able to come up with something._"

"_Sure. We'll just bump in Zesyyr's bedroom first thing in the morning, get that 'horny' jerk out of the way and then kindly ask her for a sample._"

Nathyrra's pictured it vividly. A grin spread on her face. "_Well, not that I wouldn't enjoy that sight …_" she snickered "_But seriously, what are our chances of getting a sample?_"

"_Well, Tarnash will be more than glad to do anything just to get Valen out of the house. Still, he is no thief and what we're talking about is like trying to snatch a tongue from a slaad …while it's still in it's mouth, that is, and the slaad trying to bite your hand off._"

Nathyrra grinned. "_Yes. But you could still do it?_"

"_Well, given an invisibility that lasts long enough, I could try._"

* * *

Rizolvir patiently waited for the two females to finish their conversation. Shi'van left him a double-bladed sword last time. For safekeeping she said. For some reason she wasn't willing to part with it just yet, even though she didn't use that kind of a weapon. Why, she didn't even have the strength to lift it properly, let alone wield it. Well, whatever, Rizolvir just hoped she wouldn't come his way when she's done talking to Nathyrra … He wanted a word with Nathyrra himself. 

After Shi'van left (not in his direction, thank heavens or whoever), Rizolvir casually strolled around the bend and into Nathyrra's path. She was so lost in her thoughts she didn't even see his "accidental" approach for what it was.

"_You seem concerned, my lady._" He told her with a gracious bow.

"_Huh? Oh, it's you, Rizolvir._" Nathyrra regained her composure quickly "_As a matter of fact yes, I am concerned. But it is none of your_ _concern_."

"_Why, my lady. Why so hostile? Surely I have done nothing to offend you?_"

Nathyrra smirked "_Not yet. But keep pushing and you just might._"

Rizolvir grinned widely "_Perhaps that is the risk that I will find pleasure in taking…_"

"_Watch it, male. You're close to stepping over the line here,_" Nathyrra told him, still smirking. A part of that smirk though, did carry a threat. Rizolvir paid it no heed.

"_Ah, but you forget that I am an artist, my lady. My kind is always stepping over the lines. But I didn't mean to annoy you, my lady. Please, allow me to say my apologies over a drink …Say, public house in half an' hour?_"

Nathyrra simply couldn't stand against his disarming smile. Her expression softened. "_So be it then. But mind you, your apology better be a very good one._"

And with that, she left, leaving grinning Rizolvir to silently congratulate himself on finally gathering the guts to do this. "_Well, this wasn't that hard_", he thought to himself, "_I asked her out and as far as I can see, I still have all of my limbs attached. Hopefully, my luck will hold tonight as well …_"

* * *

**  
late that night...**

Shi'van was sick.

Late that night, she managed to sneak into Maeviir compound thanks to the window in Tarnash's room that was "accidentally" left open. Using the shadows in addition to the invisibility Deekin cast on her before she left, she was able to pass through the house unnoticed and at one point even summon Karandras to her side, just in case. The two of them then had little trouble scouting out the place and finding Zesyyr's private chambers. Karandras was there just in time to see Zesyyr mixing the drug in Valen's drink and he mentally related that image to Shi'van. And so it was confirmed. Zesyyr was indeed poisoning Valen, and she kept the poison in a small vial that hung on a chain around her neck. It wouldn't have been a difficult task to steal it, take a sample and put it back where it was had it been anywhere else. This way, however, it was next to impossible - Zesyyr didn't part with it even while asleep. Still, she had to give it a try, and her best chance was to wait until Zesyyr was sleeping and then hope she wouldn't wake up.

So now, she was hiding in the shadows of the room and waiting for Zesyyr and Valen to finally fall asleep. …And what she saw going on in that bed made her sick.

It went on for hours. It could have been only a couple of minutes really, but it seemed like hours to her.

/ The two of them, embraced, wrapped around one another… sweating… panting. /

_( A body, huge, sweaty… above her… Massive… choking her… )_

Waves of nausea swept over her. She fought hard to stop herself from puking.

/ Her nails, across his back, a trail of blood… He gasps, her tongue in her ear… Hair, wet, in strands… Bodies turning, twisting, coiling… /

( _Bound wrists… Laughter… Pain… )_

She began to shiver.

/ Bite marks on her neck… A gash on his chest… His hands on her breasts, in her hair, pulling… Her lips, parting… breathing… his smell… her perfume… His muscles flexing, bulging…/

( _Numb… Tearless… )_

At one point, she even let out a small whine, but luckily enough, the two of them were too loud and too busy to notice.

/ Hips, rubbing… Stronger… Louder… Faster …/

( _For years… )_

She tried closing her eyes, but the sounds still remained.

(_ In death…_ )

Like the shadow he was, Karandras silently slipped closer to her, the glint of his yellow eyes offering a measure of comfort to the shuddering shadowdancer. There was nothing really bad going on in that bed, he knew. Perhaps a bit kinky, but nothing bad… not bad at all, if someone asked his opinion about it. Still, he knew his mistress well, he knew her heart and her mind, her soul and her deepest fears and darkest memories. He knew how she felt, and he knew why. Gently, he nuzzled her hand. She grabbed the shadowy fur on his neck in return and struggled to keep her breathing from becoming too loud. Karandras focused tightly on the link they shared and tried to impart the feelings of strength and resolve to her. The link worked both ways though, and Karandras was soon swept by a wave of jumbled emotions and confused thoughts. There was a strong revulsion there and an occasional impulse to jump out and kill both of them, right then and there. There was also, he noted, a pang of strange jealousy aimed at Zesyyr, or rather, at her ability to have sex normally and to even enjoy it. And woven into that was also a very, very small pang of another sort of jealousy…The common one, but Shi'van refused to even notice it.

Finally it was over. Soon after, both Valen and Zesyyr were asleep. It took Shi'van a while longer to come back to her senses and once she did, she silently slipped out of the shadow and moved closer to bed. When she was preparing for this mission, she asked Deekin to get her a scroll with a sleeping spell on it. Being a rogue and also Drogan's protégée once, she had no problems handling minor items and enchantments. Quietly, taking care not to wake the sleeping pair, she read the scroll. Hopefully, both of them will now fall into an enchanted sleep that was much deeper and much harder to wake up from than the normal one.

Slowly, she reached for Zesyyr's neck …

* * *

**  
Penname wa Silver B: **As you can see, Ra'sin did get killed… but it sure took him long to die evil grin And Shi'van's not evil per se… she's just a mercenary… and currently very pissed ;) Glad you liked my illihtids. Took me about four days to get that Nathyrra-Elder Brain convo done. Good to see my effort wasn't in vain. 

**Night Vendiviel: **No problem, I'll keep you informed. Aye, poor Valen indeed ;) Btw, yeah, it always seemed ridiculous to have a whole load of powerfull individuals sitting on their asses in Lith My'athar doing nothing while you get to run around and do all their dirty work for them. And the shadowdancers… yup, they are nasty indeed. There is this little thing however – there are no real shadows in Underdark! Everything is pitch black down there, and without a source of light… well, there can be no real shadows, right? Still, it's a semi-magical ability, so my guess would be that down there, the "hide in plain sight" thing simply works a bit differently – darkvision is based on heat patterns, and the shadowdancer might as well use the ability to lower her body temperature somewhat… or better yet, to slightly lower the temperature of darkness around her, thus becoming "invisible" to the darkvision using creatures.

**Fomalhaut: **Well, you really wouldn't like to read a fully detailed three-page description of what happened to Eldath between the end of the last chapter and the beginning of this one, would you now? ;) Not that I couldn't write it… even more evil grin And the suspence… I must admit, the most difficult part right now is to break my story into chapters to post here. Seems I'm doing o.k. for now ;)

And another thing: **Jefepato** if you're still reading this, I didn't mean **five** half-drow, I meant **five percent** of them… stupid typing mistake. **shadow0015, Essence Silverdragon** (and the rest of you crowd) you still with us, or I bored you to death with this story? ;)


	8. What Matters Is That You Can

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van… and from this chapter on, a little bit of poetry as well… the one signed by Shi'van Darkblade (hmmm, maybe I should sue her for copyright…). When I use someone else's lyrics, I make it my point to sign the author(s) accordingly.

**More bragging from the author: **Now, I'm damn proud of how those poems came out – they were written in my native tongue (most of them anyway) and if any of you ever tried translating poetry and tried to keep the rhythm and the rhyme as close to the original… You know what I mean. Anyways, to some of you, it might sound like only some lousy third-rate poetry, but it's MY LOUSY THIRD-RATE POETRY, so hands off! (Just kidding there. If you like it – take it, if you hate it – shred it.)

Ehrm, about the previous chapter… it was chapter **5**, not 4. Ooooops…

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 6 **

**What Matters Is That You Can…**

**"_Dark and empty_**

_**Hollow**_

_**Ringing, ringing of loneliness**_

_**Echoes through the blackness**_

_**Soft and glassy**_

_**Empty and compressed**_

_**Beyond the reach, almost there**_

_**Chokes and grabs**_

_**Devastates**_

_**The fear of the mirror …**_

_**… of loneliness**_

**_… and of facing it_"**

"_In the Mirror", Shi'van Darkblade_

**

* * *

**

"_But boss still be asleep!_" squeaked Deekin "_Deekin not lets you wake boss up yet. Boss be very tired, she says to Deekin, and when boss be tired she be nasty too. Boss swears she takes heads off if you wakes her up._" 

Osyyr stared at the kobold. Unlike most of the others, he didn't see much of him as yet, and Deekin sure took some getting used to.

"_But the Seer said this has to be done today. Look, I don't want to upset neither you nor your, errr …boss, but I just happen to have full two dozens of golems stomping around and asking me day in and day out just when they are finally going to be given a chance to contribute something._" He couldn't believe he was actually discussing important missions and whatnot with a KOBOLD!

"_Well, maybe you gets golems to wake boss up?_" Deekin said helpfully.

The image of Ferron or another one of his kind stomping through Lith My'athar, then into the room and finally shaking a sleepy shadowdancer awake suddenly appeared in Osyyr's mind.

"_Oh, sure. And perhaps if we give them a bunch of flowers or a chocolate together with a ribbon, she might not even take their heads off._"

The kobold looked at him squarely "_Deekin knows sarcasm when he hears it, you knows_."

"_Perhaps you'll use that same keen sense to detect a proper musical note, sometime_." came Valen's voice from the side.

The tiefling had a wicked expression on his face and even though he was grinning right now, his blue eyes remained cold. He had his backpack ready beside him. Barely four days after their last meeting, the Seer had another mission for that cursed half-elf and, wonder of wonders, has chosen him to accompany her. And, as it happens, once again he was forced to stand around doing nothing, waiting for "her highness" to kindly drag her skinny ass out of bed.

"_Bah._" He growled in agitation "_I'll drag her out of the bed myself ...By her leg, if I have to._"

As he started towards the gate, a voice stopped him short. Shi'van just stepped through. "_And I bet you would enjoy every second of it. After all…_" she added as she passed him by "_you do seem to have developed a strange fascination for female beds lately._"

Only Osyyr's and Deekin's presence stopped Valen from killing her right on the spot. "_But just you wait, you little venom-tongue._" he thought to himself "_Soon we shall be out in the open caverns again. Just the two of us 'darling', and not even that shadow wolf of yours will be able to help you then…_"

While Valen was lost in his murderous thoughts, Shi'van greeted Deekin and approached Osyyr. "_Did the Seer explain this to you?_"

"_No, not really. She just said that you have a mission to accomplish and that I am supposed to help you with the part that's to be done here. I still have no idea what it is, though_"

"_You'll know when the time comes, Osyyr. …Hey, don't give me that look, I'm not trying to be mysterious here. Look, I'm just going to open a sort of a portal here and another one over there so that the golems can go through and back again. Now, I need a safe place to open the first one. All I ask of you is that you don't let anyone near it until I return, o.k? And the less people know about this, the better._"

"_Not a problem. And I think I know just the place._"

Osyyr led her to a relatively secluded place behind a row of big stalactites. Soon enough, the first binding was placed.

"_When I am back, I'll come out of this portal I just placed, so expect me in a week or so and don't be alarmed when I pop up in the middle of your courtyard._"

Osyyr grinned "_Very well. I'll try to restrain my marksmen from filling you up with bolts._"

"_Good enough, I suppose. Now, let me just see if this thing works the way it should._" And with that, she stepped into the binding.

**

* * *

**

"_Greetings, sojourner. It has been a while since you last came._" 

"_And hello yourself, Reaper. Yeah, it's been a while. Ever since Halaster erased all of my bindings in the Undermountain to be precise._"

"_There was nothing I could do to prevent it, sojourner._"

"_Yeah well, whatever. Look, there's gonna be some serious stomping through this place soon. I've about two dozen or so of golems to take out for a picnic, so brace yourself, Reaper. …And in case you have ears somewhere beneath that cowl I suggest you find something to plug them with because this is going to be pretty noisy… _"

**

* * *

**

"_You look concerned, little one._" Osyyr said after Valen and Shi'van have departed. 

"_Deekin be worried about the boss. She really not feel too good lately, and now she goes away again._" Deekin sighed "_Sometimes Deekin miss old boss. Old boss never go anywhere, he just rumble lots and get gassy._"

Osyyr eyed him quizzically. Before he could stop himself he said "_Old boss?_" and in return, he was granted a full-detail account of Tymofarrar's many interesting ways and habits.

Once he launched himself into what he liked doing best, that is, telling stories, Deekin's day passed very quickly. To sergeant Osyyr however, it proved to be a long day indeed.

**

* * *

**

They were five days into the Underdark, and Shi'van was still alive. She set their pace fast, wasting time on resting only as much as it was absolutely necessary and saying very little, if anything at all, as they traveled. Even with Zesyyr's subtle encouraging of his inner demon, Valen was still not the type to strike and kill unprovoked. And thus, they were five days into the Underdark and Shi'van was still alive. 

Right now, they were passing through a low, small cavern, the floor of which was still covered with many marks of dried blood. Valen figured this might be the place where the party returning from the illihtids found Shi'van and that drow she was holding prisoner. According to what he heard from Nathyrra, when they found her, the shadowdancer almost literally disemboweled the poor prisoner, strung his intestines half way across the cavern and was about to hang Deekin's underpants to dry. He couldn't help but grimace at the notion. He despised cruelty and he absolutely hated torture. His thoughts slid back to the time when he himself was tortured by Grimash't. Was it for months or for years, he wasn't sure, but he knew it was an agony beyond measure and certainly not something he would like to experience or even witness again. And that's precisely what he told Shi'van now.

"_Well, as the future Patron of the House Maeviir, maybe you should start getting used to such things,_" she said dryly without turning to face him.

His face grew red. Aside from a brief adventure or two, Zesyyr was the first serious relationship he had ever since, ever since… His thoughts went back to his time with Grimash't again… and to one day in particular. Once again, he saw her battered and beaten body being dragged in front of him, he could almost hear the demon's laughter as he forced his head up to watch what was coming next… The pain of the memory was not that fresh in his mind anymore, but it never went away completely either. Even now, so many years later, he still found himself gritting his teeth and trying to keep the burning lump in his throat down. But he had Zesyyr now …

"_My personal life is none of your business, Darkblade_" he growled "_And you are the only torturer around here so far. Even if she had been a priestess before the Spider Queen disappeared, Zesyyr would never … _"

"_Oh she wouldn't, wouldn't she!_" snapped Shi'van "_Your little snake-wielding bitch of a sweetheart must be innocent like a baby, right!_"

With a roar of outrage, Valen threw himself at her. He didn't even reach for his flail – he wanted to tear her apart with his bare hands.

Shi'van deftly dodged his enraged attack and begun a roll that would bring her away from his reach "_Don't forget I was the one to bring her to the throne!_", she yelled. "_And I can leave the House Maeviir without a Matron again!_" she continued, this time diving even further away.

"_I'm going to snap that yapping bonebox of yours shut! Permanently!_" roared Valen.

"_I'm not afraid of you, tiefling!_" Shi'van countered from the safe distance. With an evil grin, Valen charged in her direction.

Neither of them had their weapons drawn and they kept tumbling and shouting at each other for almost full minute… until Shi'van made a mistake. At one point, she stopped for a second, trying to summon the surrounding shadows to conceal her better, but she miscalculated the distance between her and Valen. Before she could either finish her shadow concealment or duck away in time, Valen slammed into her. In a few furious fist strikes, Shi'van found herself dazed and bleeding, pinned to the wall and with both of her arms held fast by the powerful tiefling.

She began to tremble. This was all too familiar. Barely few weeks before, she would never allow something like this to get to her, but with all that has happened recently and especially because it happened so fast, she was now unable to hold firm against the assault of memories that rushed up to meet her. Images from the past flashed in front of her eyes in blinding speed and with them also came the fear. The cold numbness that was once her sole existence threatened to grasp at her mind and her heart again. Desperately struggling against it, she shuddered violently.

"_Afraid of me yet, little dancer?_" Valen's breath was hot on her face.

Partly giving in to her numbness, for there was no other way she could steady herself now, she slowly brought her head up and looked straight into his eyes.

"_As a warrior… no. As a man… yes._" she whispered.

Valen loosened his grip somewhat. What the hell…?. And then it dawned on him. Now, he stared at her with a mixture of incredulity and disgust. What she implied was that he would actually… Damn it, this was so low he even lost the will to kill her. She simply wasn't worth it.

"_Even though I am part demon, I would never sink that low …Even if by some miracle I would ever desire your body,_" he spat and roughly pushed her away. With another disgusted look, he turned around and walked away.

Shi'van made no attempt to get herself off the ground. "_That doesn't matter,_" she whispered to his back, "_What matters is that you can._"

Valen stopped short. After a long, agonizing moment, he turned to face her.

"_Well, I won't._" he growled gruffly "_Now let's go._"

That said, Valen turned and went out of the cavern, never once looking back.

**

* * *

**  
Two days later, they arrived at the place where Shi'van was supposed to place the second binding. Since what happened in the small cavern, they didn't exchange a word, they even avoided looking at each other as much as they could and they kept their distance so great that it was questionable if they were even traveling together. But now, that had to change and Shi'van was the first to break the silence. 

"_You will stay here and wait for the golems. It will take some time to get all of them through, but they should all arrive in couple of hours._"

Valen nodded in acknowledgement. He needed some time on his own anyway. What happened two days ago was still fresh in his thoughts, especially the last part. Those last words she said were still ringing in his mind. There was something in the flatness of her voice; the strange calmness in spite of her trembling that gave him a pause. He also remembered the look in her eyes as she spoke. They looked like two pieces of polished darkness, numb and dead. It felt as if for a moment he stared into the void itself and in that void, he saw his own reflection. He didn't like what he saw. It was something dark and enraged, something mindless… something he hoped he had left behind.

Apart from that, he also needed some time to rest. Normally, he could go on for days at this pace and with no sleep at all if the need be, but lately he had been feeling dizzy and tired, and it was only getting worse. As soon as Shi'van stepped through the portal, he found himself a safe spot and fell in a deep, dark sleep.

**

* * *

**

_Yup, it's a short one. Still, it's a sort of a connection between the last one and the next one, and somehow, it didn't fit neither here or there._

To my faithfull reviewers, I can say nothing but: "_You reads Deekin's book? Deekin so excited! _"

And to the rest of you, my dear readers, I add:"_Did you likes it_?" nudge, nudge

Glad to see you folks thought the sex scene is tastefull. I re-wrote it the night before posting and that's exactly what I wanted it to be.

**Night Vendiviel:** Heh, thanks! I'm afraid though that, unlike myself, the game creators have to care about PG rating… and they do have a product to sell… giggle I got stuck a lot while doing some of the convos - at one point I actually had this silly idea of trying to contact the man himself, Daivid Gaider, and ask him something like "All right, what the hell would Valen say now!"

**Fomalhaut:** Ouch! I'd better watch my back now… ;) Gotta tell you though, you'll have to stand in line – so many people already want my head for various reasons…

**Essence Silverdragon: **Well, I'm giving poor Valen such a hard time… why would I be kind to Shi'van then? Besides, out of those two, guess who's really a bigger crack-pot? Oh, and don't let Shi'van hear you being sorry for her – she hates that, she just might get nasty… ;)

**Penname wa Silver B:** Yeah! Straight to the point! But that's guys for you… (errr, male readers, sorry…). And Ra'sin? I'll get around to that, but much later on. Don't worry, I didn't forget about him. I don't like leaving loose ends.

**shadow0015:** Kittens with different fur color… yeah, something like that. (I'd better not go into details, the biologist in me will start kicking in.) Ah, someone payed attention to that golem-thing! Well, I'm a freak for details, I like things to make sense. I needed to make those golems usefull and I had to find a way to get them to Zorvak'mur… and then it occurred to me that when they're away from the powersource (and they would be while in the Reaoer's realm) they go blank and… I had to come up with something plausible. My mind? You can have it… I'm out of it most of the time anyway. ;) Oh, and about that leaving the golems business you mentioned… I can only quote mr. Dickinson to you "Tell me why I have to be a powerslave…" Errr… I just got the image of a bunch of golems stomping through Underdark singing Iron Maiden songs… gotta go clear my head… somehow… right now… ;)


	9. Death Lurks In the Shadows

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van… and well, you know the rest.

**Yeah, I blab a lot, but this is important, both for this and for some of the following chapters: **Language is a fascinating thing. If you speak the language, then you also understand the culture that's using it… or so they say (check Samuel Dileny's "Babylon 17" for more on the topic!). You don't agree? Well, let me put it like this: in every language, you have words for what, in your culture, are every-day common things, such as "family," "friends" and so on, and you all know what those words mean. Drow, on the other hand, have words such as "medri", meaning "death bringer" or "jiv'elgg" meaning torture (with the root "jivvin" which means "fun, play, amusing cruelty") and those are perfectly sensible, every-day things to them. See what I mean? I think it speaks volumes about their culture and their way of thinking.

Anyway, I sometimes use drow words in this fic. Most of the time, I manage to squeeze in the translation right on the spot, but sometimes, I just can't. As far as this particular chapter goes, "ssussun" means "light" which is also a curse a drow might shout at another drow – "Ssussun pholor dos!" (or just "Ssussun!" for short) – "Light upon you!", as opposed to what a surfacer might say (like "Darkness upon you!") Oh, and if you ever wondered just what the hell is Valsharess shouting at you while you fight her… that "Vith oss!" thing… Well, believe it or not, but it means "Fuck off!" Hey, if you don't believe me, check the drow dictionary… And not that short version found in "Drow of the Underdark" but an expanded one – if you can't find it, let me know, and I'll send it to you. ;)

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 7**

**Death lurks in the shadows…**

…**And that death is me**

**( Elghinn gulu'dae l' veldrin…Lu' nindel elghinn zhah uns'aa )**

* * *

"**The stalker / In mist of whispers / On road to oblivion / Unseen**

**Forgotten / Embarced by shadows / The weaver of darkness / Unleashed**

**The nameless / The haunted hunter / The silent inciter / Of screams"**

"_Shadowdancer,_" _Shi'van Darkblade_

**

* * *

**

**Lith My'athar...**

Rizolvir whistled as he worked. He had a freshly made scar on his cheek that was pulsing brightly when viewed in darkvision. It was unmistakably made by sharp nails, but Rizolvir didn't seem to mind. Imloth observed him from a distance and grinned.

"_What do you say, Imloth? You think I should keep him?_" Nathyrra too had a wide grin on her face.

"_Watch it there, Nathyrra. Maybe our Rizolvir will turn out to be a bigger bite than you can swallow._"

"_Maybe… But I think I'll keep him anyway._"

Imloth chuckled and turned to regard the grinning female. She had an air of a satisfied cat about her. Imloth hasn't seen her so relaxed in days.

"_Any luck in handling some other 'love affairs' aside from your own?_"

A dark cloud instantly settled in Nathyrra's eyes and she sighed deeply.

"_Maybe. I hope so, at least. But I have to wait for Shi'van before I can test it._"

Ever since the shadowdancer managed to get her the sample of Ut'silt-elg'd'sinss, Nathyrra was busily working on an antidote. It wasn't an easy job, even with the Seer's help. Nathyrra was still far more proficient in poisoning people, than in curing them. Still, she and the Seer did the best they could and the antidote they came up with recently just might prove to be efficient. Of course, with so little time on their hands, it was far from the potent thing they really needed, but it would have to do. If taken regularly, it should help break the addiction somewhat and up to a certain point dispel the suggestive effects that Ut'silt-elg'd'sinss had on it's imbiber. But the antidote could only give Valen a head start in the healing process. Their prime hope remained that Valen's own body was strong enough to fight Zesyyr's poison. And, of course, there remained Zesyyr herself. No antidote could repel that one. Poison maybe, but an antidote definitely not. Which was why they had to wait for Shi'van. Right now, Valen was safely out of the way, waiting in front of Zorvak'mur to organize the attack as soon as the golems arrive. Hopefully, by the time he returns to Lith My'athar he will already get his first few doses of antidote and will begin to fight the poison himself. However, it was Shi'van who had to deal with Zesyyr before Valen's return, for if she dragged him back in her House, then all their work would be in vain.

**

* * *

**

Shi'van stepped out in the courtyard. Swiftly, she made her way to the city taking care not to be seen and soon, she met with Nathyrra. 

"_Is it done?_"

Nathyrra nodded and handed her the antidote. Since Shi'van was going back to Zorvak'mur it will be her who will have to give Valen the first few doses. She studied the shadowdancer carefully. How much she had changed in the past two weeks. She used to be cynical and bitter before, but not unbearably so. Now, she was simply dark, and few would not find themselves uncomfortably backing away from her shadowy dead-gazing eyes. It was clear to Nathyrra that something else has happened during these last few days in Underdark, but once again decided not to ask. Shi'van didn't seem in the mood for answering questions. She seemed more in the mood to kill.

"_You'll go to Zesyyr now?_" she asked her, though she knew the answer already. Shi'van just nodded grimly and turned to depart.

"_We need her alive. Remember that._" Nathyrra called after her. She had to remind her of it. The half-elf was really in the killing mood.

**

* * *

**

Zesyyr stretched lazily in her bed. She missed Valen. She honestly hoped he'd be back soon. A full week had passed since his departure and she began to worry what effects on his health the absence of Ut'silt-elg'd'sinss was having. Nothing too serious, she knew. After all, he was as strong a male as she had ever seen, but still… Should he prove to be strong enough, the effects of her drug might begin to wear off somewhat. She didn't like that idea. She'd have to increase the dose once he comes back. 

She got up and walked over to her night table, then sat herself in front of the mirror and begun arranging her hair. Oh well, things weren't so bad after all, she grinned to herself, and they might turn even better soon. Before his departure, she spent a few days secretly casting subtle suggestion spells on Valen, gently coaxing out his far-from-anything-nice feelings he had for that damnable iblith. With any luck, that should prove enough to make him even less tolerant to the iblith's presence and once he snaps …

She smiled to herself again. She was so perfectly wicked. In a single strike she was going to get herself rid of the threat that that iblith presented to her, coax more of Valen's demonic blood out and, in doing that, also draw him even further away from the Seer and, in turn, closer to herself.

"_Ah, my dear tiefling. You bring so much pleasure to me,_" she purred. "_And how much more useful you shall be when this whole thing is over and…_"

"_Dream on… bitch._"

Zesyyr jumped from her chair and spun about. Who the…? And then she saw a shadow emerging from a shadow, a red-glowing blade in her hand and dark fires burning in her eyes. The iblith! How the hell did she get here?

"_The tiefling is mine._" came a hissing growl "_And if you ever lay your filthy paw on him again, so is your head, Zesyyr._"

Zesyyr was dumbfounded for a second, but regained her composure quickly and tried to call out to her guards.

"_Nothing doing, little matron_" the shadow mocked her "_No sound can leave this room, and it's just you and me now._"

Little matron! Zesyyr's face turned bright with outrage. The initial confusion she felt was far outweighed by this blatant disrespect …and from a mere iblith! This insolent creature just popped up in her own private bedroom with swords and threats, daring to lay claim on her male and, above all, mock her? That is NOT how you address a Matron Mother! With a curse and a growl, Zesyyr reached for her whip.

Normally, the snake-headed whips were the personal gifts of Lolth herself to her priestesses and functioned as the extensions of their wielders' will. Now that the Spider Queen was gone, no priestess was supposed to be able to wield one, but late Matron Muryne had her house wizards create for her and her daughters the wizardly equivalent of the items and so the females of the House Maeviir continued to wield those dreaded weapons as a sign to their goddess that they didn't doubt her return.

"_Now, I shall teach you the proper respect, iblith!_"

The shadow grinned. "_Asanque…_"

Asanque? Zesyyr's face turned heated fury. What the iblith just said (and when the hell did she learn drowish anyway?) meant both "as you wish" and "likewise".

"_Oloth plynn dos_!" she screamed, "The darkness take you", and lashed out with her whip.

"_Ol jal'yur xunus_", the dancer replied sliding back into the shadows. "It already did".

Zesyyr smiled. True, this iblith has killed both Tebimar and her mother, but those two weren't prepared as she was. Stepping back instead of pressing forward with her attack, she quickly launched herself into fast silent casting.

"_Ssussun_!" she finished an instant later, and suddenly, the entire room flashed in a burst of bright light. "_No shadows to hide in them now, little dancer._" Zesyyr grinned to herself, completely undisturbed by this sudden brightness. She always found this particular spell to be useful when dealing with the various denizens of the Underdark, so she made her point to wear a magical ring that protected her eyes at all times.

Shi'van's eyes however, were completely unprotected and they were now filled with tears and hurt profoundly. With no shadows in which to hide, she now drew her other blade as well. Zesyyr's next attack came in the form of a magical beam that was supposed to stun her on the spot. She closed her eyes and fought through the pain as she tried to duck away, but she wasn't fast enough. She resisted the spell, but it still slowed her down long enough for Zesyyr to come on with her next attack.

"_You cannot win this fight._" Zesyyr taunted, quoting Valen's favorite battle cry. She drew a thin purple wand from her belt. It was a single-use summoning device and Zesyyr hoped to save it for some special occasion, but the sight of an impudent iblith being stomped to death by whatever creature answered her summons will be well worth the waste of the item. Grinning widely, she said the triggering word.

In a swirl of small purple lights, a shape of a giant hunting cat appeared in the middle of the room. Before it could gain it's full form however, Shi'van countered the spell with one of her own. A ray of energy shot from her ring and dispelled the summoning. Zesyyr growled in anger. Is that how you want to play, iblith? So be it. We'll see if you can dispel this …

During the next couple of minutes, Zesyyr launched spell after spell Shi'van's way, never giving her time to gain her footing, always keeping her ducking and in defensive. Much to her credit, the shadowdancer managed to either dodge or resist many of the spells, but she still got hit by more than enough for Zesyyr to be certain that this battle wouldn't last much longer.

Shi'van knew she was in trouble. Not only that she's been fed with more magic then she ever cared to see, but also the sound-blocking enchantment that Tarnash has placed in front of Zesyyr's room will soon wear off, and once Zesyyr's guards start pouring in here, her life will be forfeit. She had to force her way into close combat, and she had to do it fast. Ignoring the painful burst of the flame arrow that caught her squarely in the chest, she dived into a forward roll and slammed straight into Zesyyr. All five snakeheads lashed out at her at once.

Quickly recovering from the blow, Zesyyr grabbed a dagger in her left hand and stabbed savagely. With that acid-dripping dagger in one hand and her five-headed whip in another, she was confident that the iblith would go down in no time.

Her surprise was indeed great when in a matter of seconds only two snakes remained attached to the handle. The remaining heads still hissed and bit the shadowdancer furiously, but she didn't even try to avoid them this time. Taking one after another painful bite as if they were nothing, she danced around Zesyyr following some private rhythm only she could hear, her movements not completely unlike those of the snakes themselves. In few swift strikes, Zesyyr found herself pinned to the ground, both of her weapons out of reach and with the tip of a black-red sword at her throat.

"_The tiefling is mine, Zesyyr._" The shadowdancer whispered leaning close to her. Zesyyr felt a thin line of blood being drown from her neck and, at the same time, her very life force being violently tugged at and transferred to the sword's wielder. She watched mesmerized as Shi'van's wounds begun to close and she stared even more pointedly into the dancer's eyes. They were colder even than a Matron Mother's heart; two deadly orbs of deepest darkness staring straight into her soul and drawing her into the void. Zesyyr shuddered, suddenly more afraid than she could remember ever having been.

"_Mine_" the dead-eyed dancer repeated, "_And if I ever see you even looking at him, you sorry excuse for a priestess of an impotent goddess, I will kill you. But before that, I will make you know the real meaning of pain, and by the time I'm through with you, you'll be begging me to kill you._" She tugged at her life force even more forcefully "_Remember, Zesyyr that I'll be watching you, always. Even when you think I'm not there, my eyes will be somewhere in the shadows, counting your breaths._" her whisper was barely audible now "_Fear the shadows, Zesyyr. You'll never know in which one you may find me. _"

Just to underline her threat further, Shi'van reached for Zesyyr's dagger and marked her cheek with a painful cut starting at the cheekbone and going all the way to her chin.

"_Never forget - Death lurks in the shadows… And that death is me._"

By now Zesyyr was too weak to even whine, let alone scream. Long after the shadowdancer was gone, she was still lying on the floor, fighting for breath and shuddering. She knew that it would be a long time until those eyes stop haunting her dreams

**

* * *

**

Shi'van moved quickly through the streets. She knew she must not slow down, for if she did she would fall. The heat of the battle still hadn't left her body, but once it did, all the pain of her wounds, especially those wicked snake bites, would rush up to greet her. And considerably resistant to pain though she was, (and it was very considerable indeed), she knew she couldn't take that greeting standing up. Yes, the sword did heal her somewhat, but it was far from enough and anyway, Ensserick's enchantment couldn't do much about all that magical damage she had sustained. 

When she was almost in front of the courtyard, she stopped for a second to swallow a healing potion. It wasn't much, but it was going to keep her on her feet for now. By the time she transported all the golems and before the attack on Zorvak'mur began, she might find some time to swallow another one… On the second thought, better make that two.

But her wounds were only of secondary concern to her now. She still couldn't shake off the mind effects the battle had had on her. First there was Eldath Ra'sin, then that thing with Valen and now this. She felt she was losing herself in the void again. No matter how desperately she struggled against it, her mood inevitably drew her further down that road. Just how in the world did she become this vulnerable so quickly? Damn it, if she doesn't brace herself, soon she might find that her last words to Zesyyr held more truth in them then she wanted them to.

At the memory of those very words, the part of her that was still in charge of trying to find the bright side to everything snickered. Gods, she sounded so theatrical there. She had to remember her exact words, Deekin was going to love them. She was certain that her friend will undoubtedly find some way to squeeze them into his book.

And speaking of Deekin, once this illihtid business is over she must make sure she spends as much time with him as possible. She was on the very edge of crumbling down and breaking into little pieces and only the little kobold's cheerfulness could get her out of it now.

**

* * *

Zorvak'mur...**

The following morning, the attack on Zorvak'mur begun.

The battle was hard. It took the golems several hours to storm through the central settlement and reach the lower chamber of the elder brain. Out of the ten drow that went with them, six survived. Valen led the charge on the arena while Shi'van and several drow managed to sneak into the slave pens and release many of those who were still not brain-washed by the illihtids.

The fight in the lower chambers didn't last as long but it was at least three times harder, for most of the illihtids together with their most powerful thralls were located there. Still, after Valen, Ferron and, up to a certain degree Shi'van, finally managed to kill the central brain, things became much easier for the attackers. By the time they were out of there, not a single illihtid remained alive.

**

* * *

**

Shi'van watched as the last group of golems departed. With so many slaves released, it would take her days to get them all through the binding. Eventually, it was agreed that most of the slaves would go to Lith My'athar on foot, led by one drow scout and accompanied by golems for protection. Only those who were most grievously wounded were going to be transported through the binding. Which was just as well, as far as Shi'van was concerned. She could pull only up to two people at the same time when she went through the binding. Two normal sized people, that is. Since the golems were most definitely not in the normal-size category, she could only pull them through one at the time, and it took her almost a full day to bring them all here. It was all in all very time taking, not to mention the strain it caused her. 

Fortunately enough, there were only three golems too damaged to go back on foot, and she took those three first. After that came a number of slaves, but that was much faster and much easier to do. Finally, after few hours, only she, Valen and another drow remained.

Shi'van observed Valen carefully. It had been a week and a half since he had his last dose of Ut'silt-elg'd'sinss and his third day of taking the antidote (though the tiefling didn't know about either one of the things he was being fed lately). Likely due to his incredible stamina he was not only still on his feet but also more than capable of running and fighting as well, as many an illihtid of Zorvak'mur recently found out. Still, it didn't have to mean a thing since the tiefling was as likely as not to collapse any minute now. In fact, he was already swaying on his feet, but whether it was due to the hard battle he has been through or the mixed effects of the poison and the antidote coursing his blood now finally catching up with him, Shi'van couldn't tell. Well, at any rate she did what she was asked to do. Zesyyr was taken care of, the antidote given and the rest was now up to Nathyrra, the Seer and above all Valen and the ability of his body to survive all this. In the end, she gave it all one final shrug, grabbed Valen and the remaining drow and stepped into the binding.

**

* * *

The Reaper's Realm...**

Valen stared around him dumbfounded. Not that he didn't see his share of strange places by now, but this one certainly counted among the weirdest ones on his list. And nothing less could be said about the tall, hooded figure that peacefully stood in the center of the errr …room. Even Cavallas didn't seem so strange compared to this one.

"_Well, Reaper_" Shi'van greeted the tall figure familiarly "_That's the last of it, and I'm erasing this binding._"

"_Very well, sojourner._" The figure replied.

It nodded to Valen and the other drow as they passed by. The drow, already seeing the Reaper on his way here, returned the nod. Valen was about to do the same when a sudden rush of pain and nausea swept him over. He felt as if someone just hit him in the head with his own flail and the very next second, the floor rushed up to meet him.

The last conscious thought that passed through his mind was the image of Shi'van pouring something into his drink on this very morning…

**

* * *

**_Right, that clash between Shi'van and Zessyr was my first attempt at writing a relatively detailed combat scene. I'm pretty happy with how it came out and I think it also shows that spell casters are not minor opponents. Oh, and in case you're wondering how the hell is Zessyr (a priestess) casting with her goddess gone… Well, she's also a wizard, so there you have it. Oh gods, I am a sucker for details… I kept the illihtid fight short though. I mean, what's to tell really? I guess there are only so many ways one can describe hacking and slashing before it becomes too boring._

_Oh, and one more thing about the language – What you've been reading right now (and so far) has been thoroughly checked by Vesna… which, of course, resulted in me spanding a whole hour correcting the text. I think she said I have "problems with narrative past perfect " or something like that… whatever that may mean… ;) And another credit to her – I based Zessyr on one of Vesna's old PCs, namely Sylinre'lyn Kenafin, as wicked a priestess of L'loth as you've ever seen, and that part in the previous chapter where Valen says "…he wasn't quite sure what her arguments were, but he knew they were sound when she presented them." Is also me paying homage to Vesna herself. Gods, you can argue with her for I don't know how long, she'll prove her point of view to you, you'll walk some 50 paces away… and only then will it dawn on you that she actually convinced you that black is white! Well, what can I say – she can sure make her arguments sound when she presents them… ;)_

**shadow0015:** Oh, how I wish I had the tongue half as poisonous as Shi'van's… ;) And yeah, after all that happened to the main protagonist of HotU (crazy medusas, floating cities, Undermountain…) the Reaper really is just another weird thing along the way, but not much more then that. Hmmm… it appears my so-called poetry isn't that lousy after all. Hope this one hits the spot too. ;) And yeah, in fact I find Deekin's voice from SoU much better then this one

**Penname wa Silver B:** Well, I had to wait untill those two a sufficient reason to have a go at each other again. After all, they ain't rabid… though they do act like they are most of the time… ;) Hmmm, I was thinking about including the full gory description of Ra'sin somewhere along the lines, but I decided against it – I like gore too, but that "…and about to hang Deekin's underpants to dry" simply sounded too good. Oh, and the golems – well, that's a joke on me really – I think I could be perfectly capable of taking heads off of anyone (golems included) trying to wake me up before early in the morning around 3 PM, chockolates or not. ;)

**Essence Silverdragon:** No, he didn't. I need those two to stay alive a while longer… :) As for their pride and so on – frankly, I don't know what's really to respect about those crack-pots. Just kidding – I'll get around to that part too… some day. Glad you too liked the poem – unlike "Shadowdancer", "In the Mirror" was originally written in my native tongue and I had to translate it, so… And anyways, none of the poetry here was originally written for this fic, it's just some old stuff I wrote ages ago, but it seemed fitting. Sometime, I might post just those poems appearing here seperatly and in their full versions. We'll see…

**Night Vendiviel:** Don't worry, I won't abandon this story. Dunno if I made it clear, but I don't post it as I write it - the story's been written for almost a year now… well, at least two-thirds of it. But you'll be glad to know my writer's block seems to be finally over (or at least, I hope so). I continued writing last night and with all the ideas I got, it seems that there'll be at least 50 more pages to add to the already existing 100… And those hundred I already have will be 20 chapters all in all, so by the time I post 20th chapter, I'll likely have chapter 21 ready. Well, if Penname wa Silver B doesn't post any more chapters of "A Dark Shadowy Heart And Stuff" in which case I'll likely end up in a hospital giggling uncontrollably and not being able to write another word. ;)


	10. Behind Their Backs

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van.

No pointless blatter this time… All right, there is, but it's below. ;)

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 8**

**Behind Their Backs**

"…**Moving on is a simple thing**

**What it leaves behind is hard**

**You know the sleeping feel no more pain**

**And the living are scarred…"**

"_A Tout Le Monde,_" _Megadeth_

* * *

Since her close encounter with Shi'van which left her without her whip and with a scar on her face that might never fully heal, Zessyr didn't leave her House. In the face of the oncoming battle against the Valsharess, she couldn't break the alliance she had with the Seer, but that didn't stop the embarrassed Matron from plotting her vengeance nevertheless. Because of this, Nathyrra stayed in the city and kept a watchful eye on her. Matron Zesyyr was defeated for now, but once there are no more reasons for her to stay in this tentative alliance, she will surely move in for the kill. Nathyrra was there to make sure that, when the time comes, the Seer and her people were ready for it.

**After being brought back to Lith My'athar in an unconscious state, Valen was placed under the care and the watchful eye of the Seer. He spent the next two weeks in bed with the fever, but eventually managed to fully recover from the effects of Ut'silt-elg'd'sinss.**

**As she promised to herself, Shi'van spent most of her time with Deekin. By the time Valen made his recovery, she managed to get a tentative hold of herself again. In spite of her attempts to regain her full mental balance however, it was only a temporary improvement that she had achieved.**

**Meanwhile, the army of the Valsharess drew closer and the advanced scouting parties were already in the western caverns once again …**

* * *

Valen, Nathyrra and the Seer were sitting in the temple. The meeting that was over barely few moments ago wasn't really the most fruitful one. They still had no definite idea how to go against the beholders. So now, after Imloth, Osyyr and Tarnash have departed, the three of them stayed to discuss it some more. 

Valen wasn't contributing much. Being freshly out of bed he was still somewhat shaky, but above all he was very, very embarrassed… and not to mention broken-hearted. It wasn't that he was missing Zesyyr, far from it. After he learned what was being done to him, only the fact that he was unable to get out of the bed stopped him from going to the house Maeviir and killing her on the spot. He didn't miss Zesyyr at all, but he was duped into thinking he had a serious relationship there and now he had all he could handle coping with the fact that it was just a lie and that he was still as alone as before.

So all in all, he was embarrassed and in pain and when on top of it all the Seer suggested that he should again accompany Shi'van in a scouting mission to the entrance of the beholders' lair he gave a cry of despair. True to the heart, the shadowdancer did seem very devoted to their cause lately, but that still didn't mean that traveling with her was a pleasant thing.

Seeing his reaction to the Seer's suggestion, Nathyrra scolded him sharply. "_Stop being such a jerk, Valen! You should really give Shi'van more credit after all she's done to help us get you out of Zesyyr's claws!_"

Valen stared at her in surprise. There were still parts of that story he hasn't been told.

"_Darkblade? What in the world does she have to do with any of it!_"

And so Nathyrra and the Seer told him. Everything.

* * *

Some time later, while he was walking to his room, Valen's head was still spinning from everything he has heard. And just when he thought things could not be any worse. What Nathyrra and the Seer told him basically meant that, until Shi'van agreed to help them their hands were tied and that, if it wasn't for her, he would still be in Zesyyr's grasp, addicted to that damned drug she fed him with and once again loosing his humanity. Or, as Shi'van would likely put it, gaining it fully. 

He reached his room, but stopped in front of the door. Like it or not, he owed at least a thanks to Shi'van. After all, it was she who ended up fighting Zesyyr …though the reasons she offered the Matron for doing so were not much to his liking. But then again, Zesyyr wouldn't buy it any other way. It was also she who got that poison in the first place and… Suddenly, he stiffened. He just realized the only way Shi'van could do that was to actually be in the bedroom while…

Abruptly, he stormed into his room, almost forgetting to open the door first. He owed her a thanks, all right, but that will have to wait until he dips his head in a bucket of cold water first. Not that it would help much, though. As burning red as his cheeks were right now, Valen was sure the water would evaporate before it even reaches his face.

* * *

After about an hour or so it took him to steady himself enough to face Shi'van, Valen went out to look for her. He looked in her room first, but she wasn't there. He tried Deekin's room next, but she wasn't there either. After checking several other places, the public house and the forge included, he eventually found her near the training grounds. She was sitting on the ground in a quiet corner and was currently amusing herself by putting together some relatively simple spike traps. Taking a moment to bolster his resolve, Valen took a deep breath and approached her. 

"_Might we speak?_"

Shi'van cocked her head "_As in, without the usual prelude to it? Like… trying to kill each other first? Yeah, I suppose we might try._"

Valen shot a quick, nervous smile before he continued "_It's about this business with…._"he looked away for a moment and spat out the last word in disgust "..._Zesyyr_. _As it happens, I was the last fool to learn about what was really going on and only today Nathyrra and the Seer told me the entire story …Of your part in it, to be precise._" He was beginning to feel rather uncomfortable now. Already he could feel the blood rushing up in his face again and he was in the hurry to finish what he had to say before he turns into a bright glowing lantern for any creature using darkvision miles around. "_Anyway, I just learned of it and I… came to say that… Well, I just came to say thank you, that's all._" Oh, damn it. Sometimes he would trade all of his skill in combat for just a little bit more skill with words.

Shi'van watched him for a few moments before she chuckled. "_All right, all right, no need to blush so much._" Of course, Valen's face turned even deeper red at this "_But mind you,_" she continued "_If you ever find yourself being eyed by another lustful bitch and pulled around by that thing you hold in your pants, don't come running to me for help. I've been fed so many magic blasts I'll be farting cantrips for weeks… And don't even get me started on the snake-bites…_"

Valen blinked. His face was positively overheated by now. He knew he should have expected this sort of reply from her. He should have gotten used to it by now. But in spite of it, he was still standing there feeling perfectly stupid, with his face red and his jaw hanging low. Shi'van burst into laughter.

"_Hey! Is this improvement I see? Two weeks ago you'd already be trying to kill me by now._" She swiftly got up on her feet, scooped up her bunch of wires and caltrops and patted him on the arm "_Chill out Valen. I enjoyed myself. I've been looking for a good reason to give that bitch a kick in the face anyway._"

Valen blinked again "_You have?_"

"_Yup. Hey, just because I liked her money it doesn't mean I liked her as well._"

"_Errr …Right_."

Shi'van already started towards the temple, but then she stopped and turned to Valen again. "_Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. While you were busy having fever, I had Nathyrra and Deekin enchant this for me. But now that I think about it, you're the one who needs it more than I do._" she said and tossed a small necklace his way. Valen caught it.

It was Zeesyyr's necklace, he realized, only now there was no poison vial attached to it. Instead, the necklace now sported six snake fangs, three on each side, and a tiny emerald in the middle. For a few moments he stared at it, his eyebrows raised in slight confusion, and then he shifted his stare on the departing shadowdancer. Sensing his gaze, she cast him a glance over her shoulder and winked.

"_Poison resistance…_"

* * *

Imloth lay in a pool of blood. His breath was shallow and week and a thin line of blood trailed down from the corner of his mouth. He clutched at the ground, desperately struggling to get up, but he knew it was in vain. He was dying. Almost all of his strength has left him by now and he had all he could handle trying just to keep himself still breathing. A valiant effort on his part, considering how many wounds he had sustained, but still, it was in vain. Only his eyes remained fully alive now, their piercing gaze settled on the grinning Tarnash who stood above him. 

Tarnash too was bleeding. Imolth might have been the one on the ground, but he didn't go down easily. Even if the entire fight lasted less then a minute, more blood was shed then a dozen of average warriors could spill in an hour of heated combat. But these two were not ordinary soldiers. They were masters of combat and their clash was a blur of swirling blades and spraying blood. They were also each other's equals in battle, and the one lying on the ground might as well have been Tarnash instead of Imloth… if there wasn't for Saldrin.

Shortly after the meeting at the temple was over, Osyyr went back to his post and Imloth and Tarnash proceeded down to the training grounds. As soon as they turned around a bend that led both of them in a quiet back alley, Tarnash attacked. Being no fool himself, Imloth wasn't caught unprepared. He was expecting this attack to come ever since he and the Weapon Master of the House Maeviir first came within then ten feet of each other. In an instant, the two of them were at one another like a pair of rabid wolverines, each one of them fighting furiously, each one of them perfectly aware that only one will leave the small alley alive. Or, more likely, that neither one of them would.

But now, Tarnash was standing over Imloth's dying body, saved from sharing that same fate by the widely grinning firstboy Maeviir casually standing behind him, his blades still dripping with Imloth's blood. Just as the battle reached it's peak that would have left both weapon masters lying dead on the ground, Saldrin, who was until then concealed by an invisibility spell, appeared behind Imloth's back. Imloth sensed the danger instantly, but never got the chance to respond. Tarnash had him fully engaged in one of the deadliest attack combinations yet and between the Weapon Master in front of him and the firstboy behind him, Imloth soon found himself going down.

"_We had a very heated argument about the beholders,_" Tarnash explained with a grin, "_and then you attacked me._" He too was fighting for his breath, and he leaned on the wall heavily before he continued. "_I didn't want to kill you, of course, but you were so blinded by rage that you left me no option. In fact,_" his grin was even wider now, "_you would have succeeded if Saldrin hadn't tried to stop you. Unfortunately, he stopped you too well…_"

The next instant, Tarnash's eyes went wide and he looked down to see both of Saldrin's blades coming out of his chest.

"_But not before Imloth killed you,_" grinned the firstboy wickedly. He jerked his blades back, giving them a sharp twist as he did, and then calmly walked away.

Tarnash clutched his chest and fell to his knees. "_Vith._" he said, and hit the ground.

"_Indeed._" replied Imloth, and then they were both dead.

No one ever saw a dark shape that was quietly observing from the shadows…

* * *

Matron Zesyyr stared through the window. It should be over by now. "Kill him." her order was, plain and simple, and her orders were to be obeyed. Unquestioningly. How was Tarnash going do it was entirely his own problem, she just wanted it done. She knew Imloth was a skilled fighter, but she trusted Tarnash was capable of seeing his appointed task through nevertheless. And once the damned follower of Ellistraee was dead, only someone from her own house, like Tarnash for example, could lead the defending forces in the oncoming battle. That meant that that wretched Seer will have to share all of her plans and tactics with the new commander, and that meant sharing everything with Zesyyr, too. She grinned wickedly. Yes, the Seer will be forced to tell her everything about her plans and tactics, and when the time comes Zesyyr will know how to use that information well. She had her vengeance to plan, and seeing the Seer's face when she learns of the death of one of her most trusted and favorite followers will bring at least some measure of satisfaction to Zesyyr every time she looks in the mirror and at her own face.

* * *

Saldrin casually strolled into the training grounds. After he left the small alley, he carefully made his way around. He went through the backstreets and narrow passages taking care not to be seen and came out in the open near to his own house. That way, it would appear as if he'd just left the compound and came for the appointed practice session. 

Once in the training grounds, he made his point to inquire among both Maeviir and the Seer's soldiers as to their respective commanders' whereabouts.

"_Maybe they're still at the meeting._" offered one of the Seer's soldiers.

"_You think so?_" The firstboy thought about it for a moment. "_Well, in that case, and especially if that meeting is going to take much longer, we might as well start without them._" he suggested.

He did well to hide his smile as he began the drill. The original plan was that he stays invisible and come to Tarnash's aid only if necessary, and at first, he was meaning to do exactly that. But then, that idiot Tarnash, himself badly wounded, foolishly turned his back to him. It was an opportunity he simply couldn't let slip. "_And so,_" he thought to himself "_House Maeviir is going to have a new Weapon Master now._"

Stifling a smug grin that threatened to appear on his face, Saldrin turned to the soldiers in front of him and began issuing the orders.

* * *

Rizolvir was running. Just ten minutes ago he left the forge and headed for the temple in order to confirm the amount of heavy crossbow bolts he had to have ready for today. Passing a non-descript alley, he thought he saw some bundles lying there. On a whim, he went in to take a closer look. 

Suddenly seeing a familiar face leaving the temple, he sped up and almost crushed into the stunned Nathyrra. About to come out with some witty remark, or a simple slap in the face if she couldn't think of anything to say, Nathyrra raised her hand, but stopped abruptly. She never saw such a grim expression on Rizolvir's face before.

"_What?_" she said nervously, not about to wait for Rizolvir to catch his breath

"_Nathyrra_" he finally managed to say, "_Imloth is dead _"…

* * *

_You know, I'm beginning to think too many chapters are beginning to put people off… Gotta find some creative way to attract more readers… and more reviews ;) Yeah, I got hooked on receiving those – Sue me!_

**shadow0015: **Sun in the Underdark? Ouch indeed! And yes, there's more… Incidentally, I didn't know there _is_ such a thing as overwriting… ;)

**Penname wa Silver B: **It's Serbian… and being in Indo-European language group is as similar to English (Anglo-Saxon group) as earth is to sky. Translating poems? It's living hell, trust me. As for wounded Shi'van – well, she's a bloody rogue, she can't possibly get out of hand-to-hand (err, hand-to-spell) fight unscratched, can she now? ;) And another chapter of "Dark Shadowy…"! Whew, at least you warned me on time. ;) Btw, I will read Dependance… as soon as my net connection finally decides to co-operate with me (I'm uploading this stuff with dial-up mostly, so…)

**Completely unimportant: **Since most of this story deals with drow dealings (Shi'van-Valen conflict aside), I spent last night looking for good drow phrases, proverbs. I also found some drow names and their etymologycal meanings (you know how every name actually means something… or at least it used to when it was first created…). Well, I found some pretty interesting stuff. For one, my guess is that the game designers might've used the same (or at least similar) source when they came up with names of various NPCs. Suffice to say, all the names have some symbolical meaning (whether it was intentional or not) so for instance, Lith My'athar means something like "Honored Home of Priestesses" . But that aside, if you want to know more about it, let me know and I'll post it in the next chapter. What I really wanted to brag about is that, to my ultimate surprise, I found the drowish equivalent of Shi'van (Shi'wae'na) and what the name means is "young (also "foolish") ghost princess". I guess that "Nomen est omen" is true after all…


	11. Bad Blood

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van.

O.K. one rather long chapter and most of it consists of Valen-Shi'van dialogue Yeah, that's right – the two are actually talking! (…Errrr, I needed some time to give them a good reason to start fighting again. grin) Anyway, I used this opportunity to say (mostly through Shi'van) some thigs that always struck me as darn silly in the game, like that entire "my demonic blood" thing. After DMing a Blood War campaign and reading tons of Planscape material, I just had to come out with it. Oh, and on a side note, it might be a bit of a spoiler, but the entire Cania part of the game must've been the dumbest thing I've yet seen… so, as you may guess, it'll be completely left out of this fic. Let's just say I have some other things in mind instead… ;)

And another thing: I don't care if you can go and load your inventory with resurrection items in the game! RESSURECTION IS RARE! PERIOD!

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**  
**  
chapter 9**

**Bad Blood**

**"I can take one day to achieve my goals, then it starts again**

**In the circumstance that I call my own, dreams just don't deliver…"**

"_This Cold Life,_" _Paradise Lost_

**

* * *

**

The news spread through the city like a hurricane. By the end of the day, the entire city had heard about the deaths of both prime commanders of the defending forces. They killed each other, it was said, and only two persons in the city knew for certain that that was a lie. The first one was Saldrin, the eyewitness and the real killer of both generals. The second one was Shi'van. 

She was sitting with Deekin in his room, discussing some of her own ideas about the beholders when Karandras sent her a most disturbing image. She knew there was no way she could possibly get there in time, and for that same reason, alarming anyone would be pointless as well. So, she let it be. After all, she still had one charge left in her rod, and she was planning to use it on Imloth as soon as his body is brought to the temple. But then another idea crossed her mind.

She kept talking to Deekin, but at the same time she was thinking this whole Tarnash-Imloth situation through. There were angles in it that likely none of the Ellistraee followers would even think of. Well, they would, of course, after all, they were the drow, but none of them would give it any serious consideration, especially the Seer. It was, after all, Imloth they will be thinking about and in their eyes nothing could be more important then finding a way to bring their friend and commander back. But Imloth was their friend, not hers, and she knew for certain that she was the only one around here that currently had a resurrection spell at her disposal. Luckily, no one but Deekin knew about it, but she was sure her little kobold friend would not betray her. The beginnings of a plan started forming in her mind.

It was a daring plan, she knew, and with very slim chances of success, but she's seen people, herself included, pull through against much worse odds sometimes. She had to try. For the sake of some people long dead that she had once known, she had to try.

Some risks were worth taking. For some things, no sacrifice was too high…

* * *

Valen burst into the temple. He just heard the news. 

He got there just in time to see Imloth's body being brought in. "_No,_" he whispered, as four soldiers with grim expressions on their faces, placed their dead commander on the bed, "_No._"

Nathyrra and the Seer stood by the bed. Struggling against her many emotions, the Seer began a soft chant. Nathyrra and the others followed. When the chant was half way through, fighting against the tears that threatened to choke her voice, the Seer begun an incantation that would preserve Imloth's body in the days to come.

Valen approached the bed. He stood there for a couple of moments, but then his strength failed him and he fell to his knees. "_We'll bury him on the surface._" said the Seer, gently placing her hand on Valen's shoulder. "_That's how he would've wanted it._" Valen said nothing. He just knelt there, mesmerized, and stared at Imloth's body, unable to hold back the tears. He always knew this war, like any other war, wouldn't pass without casualties. But Imloth…

In that instant, Shi'van was almost ready to forget the whole thing. "_Imloth was not your friend… But he was Valen's._" Her hand was already half way in the bag, reaching for the rod as the thought passed through her mind, but in the last moment, she snatched it back. What the hell came over her? Just why the fuck would that matter? And what did Valen have to do with anything? That last question gnawed annoyingly at her mind, and she had to fight hard to push it back. Damn it! She couldn't let herself think like that. No way! The tiefling was just another chess piece on the grand board of life, no more. He had to be. Damn it, she didn't spend her entire life fighting against the world and herself alike only to come down here and put all she had managed to achieve so far to a test, …And against a pair of horns and a tail, no less. No. That's not going to happen, and Valen better be a good boy and stay away from her, her mind and herself alike. "_Yes,_" came a cynical voice inside her, "_But what about keeping yourself away from him?_" She gritted her teeth at the notion. Well, she decided, if she is really in danger of catching herself not being able to do it, then she'll sure as hell make certain that the tiefling is. It was only a tentative truce between them now, and it was as easy as nothing to make him want to break it himself. He snaps so easily and should she ever feel… should she ever find herself having such silly notions again, she would have no problem making him furious and wanting to kill her. She would have no problems making him hate her again …If she had to.

Shi'van quietly slipped out of the temple, but that last afterthought still lingered painfully in her mind. Steeling herself, she gritted her teeth again and stepped out into the street. While the Seer's people were taking Imloth's body away from the alley, House Maeviir has also retrieved the body of their fallen Weapon Master. Shi'van sent Karandras to spy on them, and he just informed her that, while a ceremony for Imloth was being held at the temple, Tarnash's body was dumped into the Dark River with all the ceremony afforded to a dead rothe.

Clenching her fists in an attempt to chase that last image from the temple out of her head, Shi'van picked up her pace and sped up towards the docks. She had to find Cavalass…

**

* * *

Western caverns, six days later…**

"_You reads Deekin's book? Deekin so excited! Did you likes it_?"

Valen stared at the kobold, silently cursing himself for not holding his bonebox shut. Just a few moments ago, as he and Shi'van discussed how should they proceed with their mission, he accidentally let slip a comment that hinted at something that happened during Shi'van's and Deekin's adventure in the Undrentide. Of course, the kobold caught up with it in an instant, and now Valen found himself cornered between an eager bard awaiting judgment of his masterpiece on one side and a grinning shadowdancer on the other. It was clear that those two were not about to let him get away with it so easily. He was about to make some gruff remark and try to get himself off the hook anyway, but another look at the pure, childish happiness that was evident on the kobold's face made him change his mind.

"_Well,_" he begun carefully, fishing for words, "_It started out well enough, but the second chapter seemed a bit …rushed…_"

"_Deekin was running lots._" the kobold shrugged.

Shi'van rose to her feet and stretched. "_Pay no attention to him, Deekin. The guy just doesn't know good art when he sees one. Why, the only reason he ever took your book in his hands at all was because I shoved it into his face._"

Valen eyed her as that very scene replayed itself in his mind. "_I knew you were aiming for the head,_" he muttered with a hint of a smirk.

Shi'van shrugged. "_Hit them where they're weakest…_" she explained to the cavern wall. Valen rolled his eyes.

"_You never run out of answers, do you?_"

"_I make it my point not to. After all,_" she turned and looked him in the eye, "_I've been mute for the better part of my life. I've still got years of catching up to do._"

"_Gods have mercy on us_" sighed Valen, shaking his head.

"_Gods have mercy, indeed,_" thought Shi'van to herself, "_Particularly one._" She found that she actually enjoyed these last six days on the road. It turned out that Valen took Imloth's death remarkably well – The very morning after it happened, he was all set and ready to go. She knew how he felt. It wasn't just a duty with him now, not just the necessity of pulling this mission of theirs through. He also needed to be away from the city and to do something, anything of importance to help him cope with the loss. Or something like that, anyway. She knew how he felt, for she had been there herself, many times. Too many. And the last time, when old Drogan died, if she hadn't been forced through that portal (the same portal he died in just so that she could get through), if she hadn't been pushed into doing something meaningful, she knew she wouldn't have made it. Neither her heart nor her mind would've been able to cope with it then and…

She blinked and jumped back as a pair of fingers snapped in front of her nose.

"_You still with us?_" Valen asked.

"_Huh? What?_" she shook her head groggily "_Yeah, yeah, I'm here. I just… remembered something._"

"_You be thinking about master Drogan again, boss?_"

Shi'van sighed. Deekin could always read her like an open book. "_Yes. I was._"

Valen looked at her curiously "_Drogan? I've never heard you speaking of him before. I gathered he was your mentor for a while, but other than that… _"

"_And what would you have me say?_" she asked, not looking his way "_He was my mentor and now, he's a corpse. How much more than that do you want?_"

Valen started to reply, but Deekin cut in again. "_You thinks he be proud of you, boss? You thinks he be watching you now, from the skies and all?_"

Shi'van pushed her hand through her hair and sighed deeply. "_Honestly Deekin, I don't know. And I hope he's not. Staring at me from some dwarven heaven, I mean._" She sighed again "_I've too many dead eyes staring back at me as it is, I don't need Drogan's on top of them._" Too many dead eyes, all right… and mostly her own.

She knew she should really be going by now. There was a job waiting to be done and she had to do it soon, but she couldn't get herself to go just yet. She wanted this conversation to last a while longer. She knew it was likely the last one she'll have, last moments of peaceful coexistence with Valen as well as with everyone else, 'cause once she sets her plan into motion…

Valen watched her intently. Obviously, there was much she wasn't saying here, and those few things she did say sounded… heartless, somehow. Still, it was clear that that Drogan meant much to her, much more then she cared to admit.

"_Sounds like that in a way, he was to you what the Seer is to Nathyrra and me._"

"_Not quite. It was Drogan who found me, not the other way around._" Shi'van spun about to face him directly "_See, unlike Nathyrra and yourself, I never went around looking for anyone's help._"

Valen raised an eyebrow "_So, you take pride in being a loner? How does then he fit in?_" he said pointing with his thumb at Deekin.

"_Boss gives Deekin a chance. He be just a little kobold then, but boss gives him a chance anyway and takes him places and protects him and when we be turned to stone, Deekin be the first boss looks for and brings back._" The kobold looked thoughtfully at Valen. "_And boss not gives Deekin chance just once, she gives him chance twice. Deekin comes to be a bard in a big city, but nobody there gives Deekin a chance. Everyone says he be just a little kobold and they not needs his kind around and stuff, but then boss comes and takes Deekin with her again. Boss be good friend to Deekin._"

Valen stared at him "_You are actually grateful to her for taking you all the way through the Undermountain and then bringing you down here… And to the Underdark, no less?_"

"_It's not like we're stuck down here by our choice, you know._" remarked Shi'van dryly.

Valen stiffened. "_Yes. I know._"he said flatly.

Shi'van returned the glare "_Well, I'm sorry, but I didn't have this shit planned. In fact, I didn't even come to Waterdeep because of that crap with the Undermountain. I was just gonna pass through there on my way to Sigil._"

Valen was taken aback. "_Sigil? You were going to Sigil?_"

"_Going back to Sigil._" She corrected. "_There's a portal in Waterdeep I was going to use. Lands you straight into the Hive, but oh well..._"

He stared at her in disbelief "_How …How did you get there?_" he stammered.

"_From the Shadow plane._" Shi'van shrugged as If it was nothing. Valen stared at her wide-eyed. It was not such a big deal for a planar, like himself for instance, to travel the planes, but for someone from a prime…

"_Don't look at me like that. Where the hell do you think Karandras came from? I just woke up one morning and found him in my pocket?_"

Valen finaly caught his breath "_I wasn't aware that the shadowdancers actually go there to find their companions._"

"_Usually not. Only when they have an entire floating city suddenly crashing down on their heads. In truth, I've no idea just how the hell did I get there, but I did. Was a bit of a shock at first, but… somehow I could always find my way around in the shadows. Anyway, been there, met Karandras, stumbled upon a portal and crashlanded in Sigil._"

Valen found himself staring at her once again. Shadowplane, Sigil… Clearly there was more to this girl than he ever even suspected… Or cared to notice. He realized then that his jaw was still hanging open and that he'd better put it to use quickly, lest he finds himself slapped again by another witty remark. Not that he could think of anything smart to say…

."_I… I haven't seen City of Doors in years…_"

"_Bah, the Cage's still the same. You haven't missed much._"

"_So… How did you like it?_" He simply had to ask.

"_I loved it. It took me a while to get a bit used to it, though. It's weird there, but I loved it. 'Twas the only place I've ever found where even I don't stand out in the crowd. And, as in every city, there's always a place for a skilled thief to make her living. I wanted to stay there, but…_"

"_You got homesick?_"

"_Homesick_" she laughed, but her laughter carried a trace of bitterness. "_Valen, I've never had a home. The only way I can be homesick is to be sick of a place that currently passes for my home… Whatever and wherever that may be at the moment. All the places I've been dragin' my heels about for the most part made me exactly that – Sick. And surely I don't miss Calimport_ …_If I never see that place again, it will be too soon._"

A dark cloud settled in her eyes as she mentioned the place. Valen saw it clearly.

"_Bad memories?_" he asked softly.

Shi'van's face was grim "_I hardly have any other kind… But anyway,_" she dispersed her grimness somewhat, "_I just came back here to pick up a few things and see what happened to the rest of the crowd back at Drogan's, say 'Goodbye world and screw you all' and hike back to the Cage for good. But, as it happens…_"

"…_You ended up here instead._" Valen finished for her.

"_Yeah. Just my luck. Instead of going to the one place I ever wanted to go, I ended up in one place I never wanted to see again._" She realized her mistake the moment the words left her mouth, but it was already too late. Valen's gaze pierced through her like a spear.

"_Why,_" he said slowly ".._didn't you tell us you've been in Underdark before?_"

"_Would it make any difference?_" she snapped. "_Look, my past is where it should be – in the past. And I want it to stay that way. I've no need to go around and spill out my life story to every last berk that crosses my path._"

Valen looked at her hard, but his gaze inevitably softened as he noticed the dark shadows of pain creeping into the corners of her eyes.

"_True. You're entitled to your privacy no less then the rest of us, but in my experience… Sometimes it helps to talk._"

"_Sometimes,_" she muttered darkly "_But most of the time, it just sends you straight down the memory lane and gives you a full view of the things you'd rather forget ever happened._"

She hit the mark. Valen looked at her for a few moments and then turned his gaze away. It looked as if he was staring at the cavern wall now, but in fact, he was looking through it, back into another place, in another life. He looked back at the Abyss …and the Abyss returned the gaze.

"_I know what you mean. After all these years, I still hear the sounds of the battles I fought ringing through my mind…_"he gritted his teeth_ "I can still feel the Blood Wars beckoning to me…"_

"_Hey, if you're gonna start with that 'my blood this and my blood that' thing again, cut it! I ain't buyin' it!_"

"_What?_" Valen looked as if had just been slapped.

"_I said I ain't buyin' it, Valen! You gonna keep blamin' your blood for everything you do? Screw that! So you've been to Blood Wars, so what? Bunch of tanar'ri on one side exchanging kicks with a bunch of baatezu on the other. Sounds like any other war to me, and I've never heard of one not being bloody. War is war, damn it, the species may vary, but that's about it. There are thousands like you out there, warriors, mercenaries, whatnots, dragged into this war or that and all of them speaking of the same shit, none of them knowing anything else but to go around and whack people on their heads! _"

Valen gritted his teeth angrily. "_You know nothing of the Blood Wars._"

"_I know enough!_" snapped Shi'van "_Enough, at least, to know that only the greater and the true baatezu and tanar'ri are truly beholden to it. The rest of the fiends just spend most of their time trying to dodge being drafted. And you,_" she looked straight in his eyes "_are most definitely not in that first category._"

Valen swallowed hard. She spoke the truth, of course. Only the true fiends found themselves being truly and completely beholden to the Blood War. But still…

"_Bottom line,_" she continued "_You're just another mercenary who found himself without a purpose in life once the war is no more, so why don't you just go ahead and deal with it already. You will be neither the first nor the last one to do so… or to spend the rest of your life trying. But aside from the mark every war, or any other shit for that matter, leaves people with, there's nothing wrong with your damn blood. You're just a short-tempered tiefling with a knack for being dramatic at all times, whether the situation calls for it or not, and that's it._" She leaned close to his face now "_Ultimately, there is no taint in any of us, save for the one we make ourselves._"

Valen opened his mouth to say something several times during her little speech, but every time he found his comments dying in his throat. So now, he just kept staring at her. After several long moments, he coldly said:

"_So, what you're saying is that all the years I've spent in the Blood Wars actually mean nothing? That… _"

"_No!_" she interrupted "_But I am saying that it is the war itself that leaves you tormented and lost, no matter which war it was. Every soldier in every world knows that… Or learns it soon enough. It has nothing to do with the blood in your veins; it has to do with your mind. The race doesn't matter._"

Before either one of them cold say anything else, Deekin interrupted them, trying to calm the situation down "_Boss be telling the truth, you knows. She never been to any war of species and she too be having bad blood in her …Uuuups._" The kobold promptly clutched his muzzle with both hands, but it was too late.

Shi'van glared at him. "_Oh, great! Way to go, Deekin. Heaps thanks._"

"_Sorry, boss. Deekin just tries to help._"

Shi'van sighed and shook her head. What was done was done. She turned to Valen again and faced his raised eyebrows and unblinking stare.

"_Yes,_" she sighed again "_Boss be having 'bad blood' in her. Boss be half-drow. …Happy now?_" Blast it all, this conversation lasted too long. It was about time to end it. "_Look, you already heard more then enough by now …And definitely much more then I cared to tell. So, here's what's gonna happen. I gotta go an' take care of something and you two boys just wait for me here. I should be back in few hours. …And if you were going to ask me where am I going, don't. As I said, I already talked too much._"

Valen watched her go. She definitely said too much. The shadowplane, Sigil, Blood Wars, Drogan, drow… Well, it did get his mind off of Imloth's death for a while, but it surely left him with his head spinning …and a lot to chew on. He put his chin in his hand and absently begun to thump his tail. A moment later, he was snapped from his contemplations.

"_That be good beat. Deekin likes it,_" said the kobold and began snapping his fingers and humming to it.

Valen stiffened. He slammed his tail hard on the stone (stifled a groan, made a mental note not to do that again) and turned to glare at the kobold. He had known very few people in his life that could take his stare for long. Deekin proved to be one of them.

"_Not much fazes you, does it?_" he said at length.

"_No, not much._" answered Deekin and returned to his humming.

Valen stared at the kobold for a long while. All right. So there was much more to the shadowdancer than he cared to notice before. Apparently, she had many talents aside from her talent for driving him crazy. Add the talent for standing the presence of a certain kobold to that list.

**

* * *

**

Shi'van placed a binding and stepped into it. 

"_Greetings, sojourner. How may I aid you?_"

"_Well, if you have some sanity to spare… I could sure use some._"

"_Is there something wrong, sojourner?_"

"_Aside from everything, you mean? Not much. …And I'm just about to make it even worse._"

"_Good luck then, sojourner._"

"_Yeah. …I'm sure gonna need it._"

Taking a deep breath, Shi'van steeled herself and stepped through the gate.

And so it begins…

**

* * *

**

The place was small and secluded. It wasn't really a cavern, but rather a small part of it was surrounded by a wall on one side and the stalagmites and the stalactites that merged together on the other three. It was connected to the bloodstained cavern and Shi'van discovered it quite accidentally while she was having her time with Ra'sin. There was only a small, barely visible opening leading into it, and all in all it was a perfect hiding place. Anyway, shortly before Nathyrra and the rest of the crowd found her, Shi'van placed a binding there. It was always good to have a little safe place of her very own, no matter where she was; and now, it proved to be quite handy. 

The stench was already unpleasant, but she didn't have the time to pay too much attention to it. She had to work fast. Carefully, she arranged a couple of rocks in a circle and stretched a black silk shawl over them, securing each of its four edges by a rogue stone. Then, she took her bag of holding, pulled Eldath's two-bladed sword out of it and placed it on the improvised altar. "_Not much of an altar, I know,_" she whispered into the darkness, "_but it'll have to do._" On the second thought, she also pulled out what was left of Zesyyr's snake-headed whip and, after a brief moment of consideration, she put that on the altar as well. Finally, she took out a short incense stick, stabbed it into the dirt and lit it. As the smell begun to fill the small area, she quietly begun to murmur the prayer that she hadn't uttered in years.

It didn't take more than twenty minutes to do all that, and when it was finally done, she blew out the incense and took the bag of holding again. She swiftly pulled a few items out of it – two slender long swords, a dagger, a cloak and a pair of pants. Lastly, she took out the rod, turned to the decomposing body that occupied the opposite part of the floor and said the command word.

Few moments later, Tarnash gasped and opened his eyes.

**

* * *

**

_Ha! Admit it – you weren't expecting this! ;) Or did you…? If yes, then you're on to me… for now. And you might as well tell me how did you figure me out – Even I don't know what's gonna happen next as I write. _

_So, what does that crazy shadowdancer have on her mind? Stay tuned, you'll find out… _

**shadow0015:** Errr… what did you mean by"exhausting job" – killing Shi'van or trying not to? giggle I'm pretty hard pressed to decide which is harder. Oh, and you seem to be stuck with a different translator then the one I have – sun is "ssiks" not "siks" and ssinssrigg… well, it's one word for love, lust, passion and greed (as in possessivnes), which is another great word that shows the mindset of the drow, don't you think?

**Night Vendiviel:** Off guard, eh? Well, that's what drow do. ;) I wonder what you think of this new twist here. Glad that someone liked Imloth… and bothered to mention it. But didn't you like Saldrin too? grin As for Valen being embarresed, well, I don't see why would you put it beyond him. I mean, try putting yourself in his shoes – Say, you and your boyfriend, alone in a dark room… and then, later on, you learn someone else was in there too… and you hear it from a third party, no less (meaning a lot of people knows about it)… and then, for some reason, you have to talk to that person that was there… and you both know it… and then on top of it all she starts teasing you about it… Get the picture? Rather embaressing, if you ask me. ;) And the drug I'm adding here…? Well, I think it's called "Ut'silt-d'phord" (loose translation being something like "reading shackles")… ;)

**Penname wa Silver B:** Yeah, poor Imloth… though, in my humble opinion, he died a true drow death… and even got a chance to be witty onne final time ;) Oh well, it was about time people start dying, don't you think?

**Indi-101:** Heh, the tables are not just turned here… they're turned upside-down! Glad you like it, and even more glad you reviewed. ;) And yes, I like keeping things realistic, as far as one can be realistic given the fact that this is, after all, a fantasy setting. As for behind-the-scenes… well, all you have to do really is watch the every-day politics just a little bit – all the plot-and-poison inspiration you'll ever need… LOL!


	12. Auguries

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van.

As ever, Vesna corrected this text before I posted it here. Here is what she had to say about it: "**_...chapter XY, In Which The Author Decided She Didn't Need No Damn Punctuation Marks._**"

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 10**

**Auguries**

" …**_Just a small pebble in the river of events, but a pebble that can start an avalanche of destiny. "_**

* * *

Gulthrys shook his head. "_She won't do it, Seer. I tried explaining to her that it would be to our advantage, but she refused to even listen to me._" A trace of a smile touched the wizard's lips "_In fact, my only accomplishment was to get an entire assortment of bottles and combs from the Matron's night table straight into my face._" 

The Seer sighed. "_Very well, Gulthrys. I thank you for trying. It appears that we shall simply have to do without, Nathyrra._"

Nathyrra stood near by with her brow furrowed and her arms crossed "_Yes. It appears so._"

The plan they had for dealing with the beholders was simple and deadly. Shi'van was to try and sneak into their layer invisible, hopefully find the Eye Tyrant, and then place a binding near or even inside its chamber. Once that was done, she, Valen and Deekin were to come back to Lith My'athar where they would be equipped with every spell and magical protection the local casters could come up with, go back through the binding, slay the Tyrant and escape through the binding again. That way, they would avoid fighting their way through the entire lair and back again, a fight that they would not likely even survive, and even if they did, it would hardly leave them in shape to face the Eye Tyrant in the end. It was a daring plan, but it was their only real chance and it had to be the three of them who would do it. Valen was the finest warrior they had and, as such, had the most chances of pulling it off. Shi'van had to go because it was she who operated the artifact and she in turn insisted that Deekin should come as well. The Seer would prefer to send another good warrior, or even Nathyrra instead, but Shi'van was adamant in her request and eventually the Seer had to give in. And maybe it was truly better that way. Shi'van claimed that, in spite of his small stature, Deekin was not such a minor creature at all, that he was a very capable caster in his own rights, that he had all the advantages of his draconic blood to aid him and that, in the end, she and Deekin worked perfectly together and that they were as fine a tandem as they could ever be.

And so it was settled. The three of them departed the very morning after Imloth's death and they should return any day now. In the meantime, the Seer, Nathyrra and anyone else who might have had a useful idea or a good item to spare were working hard to come up with the needed enchantments and protections. In their efforts, they have also approached House Maeviir High Wizard Gulthrys, but while he himself proved to be quite ready to give them a hand, Matron Zesyyr refused to even talk about it. She gave the rebels a shelter in the city, she placed most of her soldiers at their disposal and as far as she was concerned, that was it. She had no desire whatsoever to lend any more aid than that, and she was certainly not about to part with any of the mightier items that she had in her house, even if it was only for the short time it would take the aforementioned trio to dispose of the Eye Tyrant …Or die trying, was Zesyyr's answer. And if they did, then all of the items would be lost in vain and she couldn't afford that.

"_I shall still aid you as much as I can,_" bowed the wizard.

"_Once again, I thank you, Gulthrys._" The Seer smiled, and the wizard took his leave.

"_So, what do we have so far?_" Nathyrra asked after Gulthrys was gone.

"_Well, I believe we have most of the beholders' eye blasts covered by now. Though, for most of the more powerful ones, we have the protections that will shield them just once. With any luck, that might as well prove to be enough. The only one we have no protection from whatsoever is the one that's causing pain, but I trust that all three of them will be able to keep fighting if they get hit by that one. …Or at least, I hope they will._" finished the Seer seriously.

"_Still, no matter when they return, they will still have to wait at least five or six days 'till we are completely ready to send them against the Tyrant, isn't that so Seer?_"

"_Yes. But we can't risk to send them earlier. I need to be certain that we provided them with everything that was within our power before we let them go._"

"_Of course, Seer. I understand._"

Both females stayed silent for a while.

"_Tell me, Seer,_" Nathyrra finally said "_Is it just my impression or Shi'van really seems more willing, even eager to aid us lately?_"

The Seer raised an eyebrow. "_You noticed that too?_"

"_Yes._" Nathyrra replied "_And I can't help but wonder why. Ever since that business with the illihtids, since we found her with… her prisoner, she seemed …different somehow. She takes great care not to show it often, but…_"

"_You are right, Nathyrra. She does seem… changed somehow, though why is it so I am still not sure. I… have been granted some disturbing omens lately._"

"_You've had another vision?_"

"_No. Just omens. Like something is lurking just over the horizon…_"

"_Bad?_"

The Seer shook her head "_Not necessarily, no. Just lurking. Observing, I would say._" She sighed "_But whatever it is, we shall learn of it soon enough I suspect. For now, let us focus on the tasks at hand._"

"_Of course, Seer. I have organized a scouting party to go to that place called Drearing's Deep. They should be ready to leave by tomorrow. Perhaps they will find some clues there as to where this last ally of the Valsharess may be._"

"_The undead? Yes, it would be most useful if we manage to locate them as well. Though, I'm afraid that even if we do, we might not have the time to do anything about them… But surely, we have to try…_"

* * *

By the time Nathyrra left the temple, it was already evening. Rizolvir was waiting for her. 

"_I thought you would never get out,_" he said to her and gave her a kiss. Or, at least he tried to. Nervous and tired as she was, Nathyrra wasn't in the mood for his little jokes and pleasantries and she roughly pushed him away.

"_Tough day, huh?_" he asked, not in the least taken aback by her reaction. He was already quite used to her temper by now.

"_I don't have the time, Rizolvir!_" she snapped angrily and pushed him away even harder this time..

"_Then maybe you should find some._" he replied calmly.

Nathyrra turned an angry glare at him "_You're stepping over the line again, Rizolvir. And this time I mean it._"

"_Nathyrra,_" he said softly "_We're all at the end of our nerves lately. Especially since Imloth died. And we all work like crazy, day in and day out. But there's no need for you to drive yourself completely exhausted. You won't be of much use to anyone if you do that, least of all to yourself._" Gently, he moved his hand to brush her cheek "_You need to relax, Nathyrra. …And I think I know just the right way,_" he added playfully. "_What you need right now girl, is a nice dinner and a good massage afterwards… and it just happens that I have both of those ready and waiting right now._" He smiled expectantly and offered her his hand. "_Shall we?_"

Nathyrra stared at him hard. But, as ever, her stern demeanor couldn't hold long against his warm eyes and smiling face. In the end, she just sighed and took him up on his offer. And anyway, she could really use that massage.

* * *

"_Why would I do it?_" Tarnash asked. "_And what's to stop me from breaking this deal as soon as I get back into the city?_" 

"_Because you're no fool, Tarnash. And that answers both of your questions. I know my plan is outrageous to say the least, but I think the gain is well worth the gamble._"

"_That it is,_" replied Tarnash thoughtfully.

It's been four hours since he was brought back to life now, and fully three of those he spent listening to the half-elf shadowdancer that resurrected him. He studied the female carefully. She was a bold one. She gambled everything she had, all the trust and all the station she gained among the Seer's people by bringing him back. And she had a plan. An outrageous one, as she just said, but the one that just might work. And indeed, the risk was well worth it. He didn't think so at first, but now, after three hours of listening to her, he found himself actually believing her words. She offered him much, he knew. Not offered as in giving him anything, but she did offer him an opportunity to gain something himself. And, he had to admit to himself, he liked that offer. He didn't like many things that the offer included, didn't like many things he had to do in order to see this scheme of hers through, but in the end, the gains to be found were still too tempting for him to refuse it.

"_All right,_" he sighed at length. "_Let's see if this idea of yours works._"

Shi'van smiled grimly "_We'd better make it so, Tarnash. For both our sakes._" She rose to her feet and pulled out the relic of the Reaper. "_Off to Lith My'athar then._"

Tarnash also rose and he eyed her suspiciously "_You sure about this?_"

"_That the Seer won't bite your head off? Yes, I'm pretty sure she won't. You just explain the idea to her, I'm sure she's gonna understand it's the best chance she's got._"

"_In the end. But will she give me a chance to speak at all?_"

"_I think even she is going to be too shocked when she first sees you alive and kicking. That should give you enough time to persuade her not to kill you on spot. And after that…_"

"_Right. Fine. Let's do it then._"

And they both stepped into the binding.

After they were gone, the small hiding place was still for a while. But then, something stirred. A dark shadow, darker even than the surrounding darkness, emerged from the walls. For a brief moment, it floated about before finally settling itself above the crudely made altar. It hovered over it for a while, and then, engulfed it completely. When it was finally gone, so were all of the offerings that were left there and somewhere in the shadows, someone smiled.

* * *

Three days later, Valen and Deekin watched with relief as Shi'van emerged from the passage and made herself visible again. She had been gone for almost the entire day, and by then both of them were worried if her invisibility would last long enough or if she would get out of that lair at all. So now that she finally came back, their relief was indeed great. But Deekin's didn't last long. 

Shi'van walked out of the beholders' lair, but she didn't come out alone. Cradled in her arms was a shivering body of a badly wounded kobold. As she gently placed the little creature to the ground, Deekin rushed towards her.

"_That cave is full of them, Deekin,_" she said, "_But I think this one's gonna make it. Here, take the bandages from the bag… I'm all out of potions I'm afraid._"

As Deekin busied himself over his wounded kinsman, Shi'van sat on the ground and gave her little friend a tired smile. Valen observed her carefully. Nathyrra's description of the tortures that drow had endured at her hands flashed through his mind, but he simply couldn't connect the person capable of doing that with the tired shadowdancer that was now sitting nearby. How in the world could she have such a capacity for bringing pain to another being and at the same time be so gentle and kind to the smallest and frailest of creatures he wondered. He shook his head slightly. Lately, and especially after that last conversation they had few days ago, he found that he was really looking at her with the new eyes. For the first time since they met, he begun to wonder about the person, the real person, hiding itself behind those mocking emerald eyes. Well, most of the time they were mocking, especially when they were looking at him, but sometimes they were also hard and unyielding and sometimes… they were just dead. He remembered again that one time when he saw it happen and the memory made his tail shudder. His blood crept slightly into his cheeks as he remembered the situation that led to her gazing at him like that, and he realized that he had never actually apologized for it. Well, perhaps it was about time that he did, but not now. Right now, she was too tired and exhausted, and Valen didn't want to disturb her even more. He would apologize to her properly once they were back in the city he decided, but for now, he just continued to study her intently.

Sensing his gaze, she turned and snapped. "_What?_"

Valen smiled softly, "_Nothing… There is much more to you than meets the eye, my lady._"

She raised an eyebrow. "_Have you been into my booze while I was away?_"

Valen blinked, confused. She always had a way of coming out with such seemingly unrelated remarks in conversation. "_No…_" he said at length.

"_You sure? You seem to be seeing some ladies around._"

Valen chuckled. "_You should really give yourself a bit more credit, Shi'van... And maybe I should start too,_" he added.

"_Don't,_" she said sharply. "J_ust because you learned a few things about me doesn't mean anything has changed… I'm still the same bitch._"

At that time, Valen just put his chin in his hand and kept observing her. But very soon, he was about to learn just how much truth that last sentence of hers carried…

* * *

**Confused: **Errr… "_I figured that she would have rez'd Tarnash, and then I saw the words Ra'sin._" – Did you perhaps mean that the other way around? Never mind, thanks for the review. So I guess you were half on to my little scheme – what gave me away? ;) 

**Night Vendiviel: **Well, you have a point there, you know? Nine out of ten tieflings would, in fact, just grin proudly. Guess Valen's that tenth one who wouldn't. But why? I'll have to think about it a bit more, but you just gave me an idea… And yeah, the two are talking… But as I said, I only needed some time to come up with a good reason to get them fighting again. ;) And is Shi'van falling for Valen, or is it something else afoot…? We'll see…

**Penname wa Silver B: **Yeah, I just hate it when people give me that "I am like this because of (insert lame excuse here), but that's the way I am, so…" Anyway, I can only quote G. B. Shaw here: "_People are always blaming their circumstances for what they are. I don't believe in circumstances. The people who get on in life are the people who get up and look after the circumstances they want and, if they can't find them, make them._" But this can (is) equally applied to both Shi'van and Valen, don't you think? And Deekin? Easy as nothing really. He is, after all, a mighty caster so, when Undrentide came crashing down, he simply teleported himself out of there. ;)

**shadow0015: **Actually, I agree with _your_ points about blood issue and I'm glad you brought it up, 'cuz it gave me an opportunity to say this (to you and everybody else) – Whatever gave you the notion that I agree with everything Shi'van says or does? Just because she's my main character doesn't mean she's always right in what she thinks! That's all just _her_ point of view. Anyway, what I hoped to achieve there was to show that the PC is not, by default, all-knowing, all-smart and always completely right. And on a side note, even Shi'van would likely agree with you, it's just that she did want to knock Valen off his pedestal, she did want to shake him up a bit and lastly, she had quite a few things on her mind on top of it all and didn't really think that much about what she was saying… or at least that's the impression I hoped to make. Hopefully, I succeeded. ;)

**Indi-101: **Hmmm… I thought Shi'van's drowish blood was already mentioned in chapter 4. And yes, I found Valen's Blood War whining silly too ;) My guess is that he should've been more… well… He should've been the type who takes that kind of thing a bit better. And in the game, he just whines and makes a tragic about it. Dunno if you noticed – in this fic, he doesn't really whine all that much, does he now? ;)

**Essence Silverdragon: **Nice to know you're still here. ;) What is she thinking…? Something very, very cunning, I assure you. You'll see…

_And now, my dear readers, allow me to point out that anyone capable of coming up with plots and schemes of the drow (and that's what I tend do in this fic) must have at least a streak of wickedness. So, now that we established that I am wicked, here's what this wicked me is going to do: In the following chapter, Shi'van's plan gets revealed… And I won't post it until I decide that my author's vanity has been properly appeased by a sufficient number of reviews! So, it's up to you people… bolts away with a wicked grin on her face_


	13. Mind Of A Drow

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van.

So, here it is at last – the chapter you've all been waiting for! It's rather short, but I'm very proud of how it came out. Hope you enjoy it. ;) Yeah, I'm also very happy of finding perfectly fitting lyrics for it – Tristania is great! I'm not nearly as good with lyrics, but still, I couldn't resist slipping in some of my own in here too. ;)

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 11**

**Mind Of A Drow**

"…**Lurk far between**

**a pale destiny**

**drawn from the past**

**Enclasp my wrath in the prophecy of thine…"**

"_Of Ruins And A Red Nightfall,_" _Tristania_

* * *

Two days later, Lith My'athar…

"_What?_" Valen roared.

They came back from the western caverns the morning before and the Seer let all of them rest for a full day before calling them up for a meeting …And now, Valen has just been told about Tarnash being alive again.

"_Yes,_" Nathyrra added grimly. "_And it was Shi'van who brought him back._"

"_What?_" He roared again and spun about to face the shadowdancer, who was quietly standing in the corner. "_You did **what**!_"

"_Brought him back,_" she said flatly.

"_And with the last resurrection she had,_" added Nathyrra dryly.

Valen glared at the half-elf, his head spinning and his emotions a jumble. It all came so suddenly that he was still not able to sort it all out, but inevitably, one thing stood out clearly – There was one resurrection, and Imloth was still dead. His blood begun to boil and he reached for his flail.

"_Don't,_" said the Seer quietly. Valen snapped about to face her.

"_You approve?_" He growled in disbelief.

"_No,_" she answered grimly. "_But what's done is done. Nothing we can do about it now._"

Valen turned his glare back on Shi'van, barely holding his rage in check. "_Why?_" was all he could squeeze out through his gritted teeth.

Shi'van caught his gaze fully. This was it, she knew. Her plan was set to motion, and now she had to take the consequences of it fully. She gathered her strength and lifted her chin defiantly.

"_Because it was for the best,_" she said coldly.

Once again Valen grabbed his flail and once again the Seer stopped him.

"_And Tarnash told me so as well. But you better explain your plan to me again, Shi'van. There are still parts of it I do not fully understand._"

Shi'van turned her cold eyes to the Seer. "_It's simple. The way things are now, your alliance with Zesyyr is more tentative than ever and it might as well be broken any day now. Saldrin, the real killer of both Tarnash and Imloth, is the only troop commander you have now, and you know very well the implications that carries…_"

"_Then why didn't you bring Imloth back?_" hissed Nathyrra.

"_Because that wouldn't accomplish a thing!_" Shi'van snapped. "_Had I resurrected Imloth, all you'd end up with would be even more shit from Zesyyr. Can you imagine her reaction once she finds out that, not only did her plan fail, but that instead of Tarnash or Saldrin, it is Imloth who came back and took the lead again? She'd break the alliance in a blink of an eye!_" she turned to the Seer again "_This way however, the chances of that happening are reduced to almost a zero. Tarnash had, and still has, many supporters in the House and now that the Spider Bitch is gone, many of them are actually beginning to realize that they don't have to take it from the females after all… Many of them believe that a male could be their leader just as well and that that male might as well be Tarnash. Tarnash served as their link with Zesyyr anyway, ever since that,_" her eyes flickered wickedly for a second, "_…incident she had. He was the only one she was speaking to, and he in turn relayed her commands to the rest of the House. So, in a way, he is already accepted as a leader of sorts and with his passing, things in there turned even worse than before._"

"_And that's why you brought him back? To stop the turmoil in House Maeviir?_" Nathyrra asked incredulously.

"_No. I brought him back 'cause he is useful. Much more so than Imloth would be to you right now._" Valen gripped his flail tightly, but Shi'van ignored him. "_You see, Tarnash is as fine a commander as Imloth was and all of the troops, both Maeviir and your own, recognize that. It shouldn't be much of a problem for them to accept him as their appointed leader._"

"_Yes. Except that he was the one who helped kill their previous commander._" The Seer remarked dryly.

"_But they don't need to know that. Tarnash can go and slay Saldrin claiming that in the end, he and Imloth weren't going to kill each other after all, but that the firstboy then bursted in and killed both of them. If you back his story up, your troops will have to accept it too. And Zesyyr will as well. You see, that way her anger will be turned solely to the firstboy for interfering and ruining her plans and Tarnash is more than capable of regaining her trust again._"

"_And why shouldn't she trust him?_" Nathyrra growled "_Why should we believe he won't turn on us once he is back in his own house?_"

"_Because, Nathyrra, he is not a fool. He's had it with females running his life, especially that crazy, scarred bitch. He wants to lead the remnants of the House Maeviir out of here once this whole thing is over, and to do that, he's gonna need you. He will remain loyal to your cause now… and he will remain loyal to me. He owes me, big time._"

"_So you plan to kill Zesyyr in the end?_" Nathyrra asked.

"_Was there ever a doubt? Yes, I'm going to kill the bitch the moment she is no longer needed, but that doesn't matter just yet. What matters now is that with Tarnash at you side, you just effectively gained the unwavering loyalty of almost entire House Maeviir. Saldrin dies, Tarnash gets the leadership again, Zesyyr thinks she got what she wanted after all and that Tarnash is still hers to command and you get a firmer alliance than you could ever hope to have. Everybody wins._"

"_Except Imloth,_" Nathyrra said grimly.

"_Some sacrifices are necessary,_" Shi'van said flatly, without a hint of emotion in her dark eyes "_I've just given you the best opportunity you could ever hope to have, and that's it._" She eyed everyone in the room coldly. "_It's your call, people._" And with that, she abruptly tuned and left the room.

The Seer observed the departing shadowdancer in silence, Nathyrra standing grimly by her side. Further away, steam coming out of Valens nostrils floated up, forming a thick stormy cloud on the ceiling.

"_I knew she had a mind of a drow,_" Nathyrra said after a long period of silence, "_but I never realized just how drowish._"

The Seer looked at her and gave a deep sigh. "_Yes. But still, no matter how much I hate to admit it, she is right._"

"_What?_" Nathyrra was stunned. Valen's head also shot up at this.

"_Tactically, she is right,_" the Seer repeated. "_I would have never made such a choice myself and surely, I do not approve of it in the least but…_" she sighed again "_We are left with no choice in this and we must accept what has been offered to us. If we want to win this war… we must._"

"_The mind of a drow,_" Nathyrra muttered again, looking in the direction Shi'van left.

"_Lurking on the horizon…_" the Seer said quietly. Nathyrra turned to face her.

"_Your vision was about this then?_"

The Seer shook her head. "_Yes… And no. This morning… I've had another vision._" She looked towards the door again. "_There is another one here now, another player who has joined in the game… And Shi'van was the one to bring him in._"

Nathyrra eyed her with puzzlement. "_You mean Tarnash?_"

"_No. Not Tarnash. Another one. Someone much more powerful… and much darker._"

Now Nathyrra was completely at a loss. What in the world was the Seer talking about? Who did Shi'van bring into play? When? And how? All these as well as many other questions that followed close behind became evident on her face. The Seer closed her eyes.

"_Another power has joined in, Nathyrra… Another… A god._"

"_A… a god?_" Nathyrra barely found enough breath to ask the question.

"_Yes, a god. A drow god..._"The Seer voice became barely a whisper as she spoke the name."…_Vhaeraun._"

"_Vha…?_" Nathyrra breathed.

The Seer nodded. "_Yes. Shi'van now walks the path of Masked God of Night… And in turn, He walks our own._"

Valen's voice, when he finally found some, was hushed and thick with hatred and rage:

"_And may she walk it into her death._"

* * *

Shi'van has left not only the temple, but that entire area as well. She made her way silently to the very outskirts of the city, near the western gates. There she found a small, non-descript alcove and climbed into it. The moment she left the temple, the hard unyielding coldness left her eyes, and gave way to the dark, bitter pain. 

Now, she settled herself in an alcove, hugged her knees and gazed into the darkness. Hopefully, someone in that darkness will return her gaze. She begun to shiver. The deed was done. The plan begun unfolding. And now, she must brace herself and see it through. There was no turning back. "_No regrets,_" she muttered into the darkness. And in truth, she had none. No, she knew what she was doing, and she knew why. She had a reason, after so many years of never worshiping anyone, save for the occasional prayer she sometimes offered to Mask, a human god of thieves, she had a reason to step onto the path of Vhaeraun now. And now that she did, she will follow it true. But at what cost…

She hugged her knees even tighter, but remained adamant in her decision not to call Karandras to her side. His company would mean a world to her now, but she refused to give herself that comfort. She had to be strong for herself and by herself. Now that the only two persons she had left were Karandras and Deekin, she had to steel herself and once again stand alone. Neither Karandras nor Deekin pushed her into this, neither one of them had anything to do with her decisions and thus, neither one of them will be dragged into this now. She had to be strong herself and she had to stand alone… Again.

No matter how much she refused to admit it to herself, she did get used to some of these people here. Rizolvir, Nathyrra, even the Seer… And, of course, there was Valen. Gods damn her, why the hell did she allow the tiefling into her thoughts so much? Yes, she did spend most of her time with him when she was on the road, but still… She gritted her teeth hard. Damn it, she had to come out and admit it to herself – She got used to him. Too much. She gritted her teeth even harder and a small tear rolled out of her eye. Yes, she got used to his presence, but that too was over now. Now, the only one who will stand the sight of her was Tarnash, and she kept reminding herself that Tarnash was the only one she needed to see anyway. It was him, after all, who was the central piece in this game, he who will, once this is over, lead the remaining Maeviir drow to the surface and form a settlement of those dedicated to Vhaeraun. And she had to make sure he does not fail. She had to. That was what all this was about, what she gave away all she had down here for. That was the plan, and there was no turning back.

In the silence of the small alcove, Shi'van hugged herself tightly, and soundlessly begun to cry.

* * *

"…**_The call of the night floods the veins once again_**

_**My verdict is the day soon to be**_

_**Masked God of Night, protector of vagabonds**_

_**Hear my only prayer this eve**_

**_And grant me peace in my dreams_"**

"_A Prayer", Shi'van Darkblade_

* * *

Well, well… Seems that bullying people into writing reviews actually yields results. ;) Good, I think I'll keep up with that practice then. So, from now on, no postings from me until you post first. ;) Seriously, people, I write the entire 70000+ words of a story – all I ask from you is a few words of encouragement… I'd say that's a fair bargain.

_Now, to my faithful reviewers – Thanks once again! And keep them coming! ;)_

**Penname wa Silver B: **There, that was Shi'van's little plan. Hopefully, it makes sense… made perfect sense to me. ;)

**Night Vendiviel: **He-he, I did hope that shadow will be scary. Hope you're still in good health (no violent death or such) ;) As for my original work… There's some, but I don't think I'll be posting anything soon. Later on, however… we'll see.

**shadow0015: **Heh, you appease my vanity regularly. ;) I'm glad you liked that Shi'van sentence – and now you see she wasn't joking. ;)

**Essence Silverdragon: **Nice to know you still stick with this story. Well, now the shadow thing becomes clear… and, in my humble opinion, even scarier, don't you think? And yeah, Shi'van is a confusing creature… but then again, aren't we all? I think it makes her more realistic. And no, she ain't evil, she's just… well, I guess it depends on what you consider evil.

**Indi-101: **So now you know what her plan is.;) Hope this chapter was worth waiting for.

**MilenaSkywalker: **evil chuckle I knew that threat will draw 'secret' readers out of the shadows. ;) Yup, I'm wicked… and I also hope this wasn't the last review I get from you. :)

**Lady Dioptase: **Aye, she's creepy. I don't know how cool, though – she's more a wreck now… or is well on her way there, but I guess that's the price to pay for being too calculating and pragmatic.

**Melted Wings: **Personally, I never liked dividing characters into "main" and "side" ones – everyone is useful and important in their own way and there's no such thing as a one-man (or one-girl) army. And being devious and using underhand means…? Well, the way I see it, it's really the only way to get the job done, "brave," "fearless," "flawless," etc paladin-like people are good only to charge blindly and serve as fodder… if you want the job done, you gotta use everything that's available to you and morality of any sort only gets in the way of success. …Errr, I'm not too sure if these were my thoughts or Shi'van's. ;)


	14. Plans And Cosequences

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van. Changed rating to M for future blood, gore and everything else that springs up in my sick little mind.

Around here somewhere it became really hard to break the story into chapters. Originally, I wanted to post this together with the previous chapter, but it would be way too big, so… The conversation in this one was pretty hard to write, but in the end, it turned out right I think. Hope you'll agree. ;) Oh, and the the verses at the end are from the same poem, "The Prayer", only this time applied to Valen.

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 11 – part two**

**Plans And Consequences**

* * *

The following day passed in no better mood than the previous one. The Seer summoned Nathyrra, Osyyr and Valen early in the morning to discuss their next course of action in the light of the recent events. There was still a matter of the beholders to be dealt with, but Valen spent the better part of the meeting foaming at the mouth, cursing Vhaeraun for even existing, Tarnash for not being dead (and for not being allowed to kill him himself) but most of all, cursing Shi'van and swearing that he would take her head off as soon as he found her, regardless of what the Seer or anyone else had to say. Eventually, the Seer managed to calm him down enough that he settled for taking her head off only if he happened to see her, but he most definitely refused to have anything else to do with her… Ever. That presented somewhat of a problem, for it was Shi'van who operated the Relic of the Reaper and without her, there was no way for Valen to go to the beholders' lair and deal with the Eye Tyrant. Still, he claimed that he would rather take his chances storming through an entire horde of beholders than get himself anywhere near the shadowdancer. 

The Seer let it go at that… for now. The beholders had to be dealt with and their original plan was the only one that had any chances of success. But still, she would give Valen a couple of days to calm down a bit and start thinking clearly again. Besides, they still needed to come up with several more protective enchantments.

Some time later, after the meeting was over and both Nathyra and Valen departed, Deekin entered the temple. The Seer observed him carefully, wandering whether he came here on behalf of his "boss" or was there something else he wanted himself. It turned out it was the later.

"_Uhm… Deekin be wandering if you gots some bandages,_" he said as soon as he entered.

"_Yes, of course Deekin,_" the Seer replied kindly. After all, the little kobold had nothing to do with Shi'van's actions and there was no need to be impolite to him. "_It's for your poor kinsman, isn't it?_" she asked as she gave him the bandages and a small bowl of healing salve on top.

"_That be for Hrizz, yes... There be many like Hrizz there, you knows? In those caves…_"

"_Slaves to the beholders? Yes, I assumed there might be._" She observed the worried look on the kobold's face closely. "_And you would like to free them if you can, isn't that so?_" She asked sympathetically.

"_Deekin be thinking about it, though it hard to do now… Now you all hates the boss and goat man not wants to go and…_"

The Seer knelt and put her hand gently on the kobold's shoulder. "_He will go, Deekin. We just have to give him some time now. But he will go and he will kill as many of those beasts he can and I promise you, he will give you the chance to get as much of your kin out of there as possible._"

"_That be good. Deekin knows you keeps your promise. But how we gets there now, if boss not be going?_"

"_She will go there too,_" the Seer replied calmly, "_but we must give her some time as well._" She paused for a moment, carefully choosing her words. "_I do not hate your boss, Deekin. I may not approve of what she has done, but I understand she had her reasons to do so. And I am still willing to give her a chance to prove to us all that she did the right thing… Or, at least, that what she did was for the good of all of us._"

"_So you not hates the boss? Deekin happy to know that,_" smiled the kobold, took the bandages and the salve and left.

The Seer rose to her feet. Deekin was among the most curious creatures she has yet seen, and she found that she liked the little kobold very much. But she didn't have the time to think about him too long. There was another one she had to speak with right now, and that one was far from being anything likable.

With a somewhat agitated sigh, the Seer walked into the corridor and went to see Tarnash.

* * *

Tarnash paced the room nervously. He wanted to get out. Ever since that shadowdancer brought him back and into the city, he had been in here, in this very room, hiding. Only the Seer, who gave him this shelter in the first place, knew about it, but even she came in here but once and Tarnash was beginning to grow sick of this waiting. He wanted out, out to the streets, out to the city, out to the Underdark even. He wanted to be anywhere but in this small room. It felt as if he was in prison and he perfectly hated that feeling. Once, long ago, he had been locked in a similar room for some minor offense he'd committed and for several long, agonizing days, he had to endure the punishment of a priestess of Lolth. He survived it of course, it was after all a really minor offence hehad committed, but the experience was not a pleasant one; and now, this situation he found himself in reminded him of it. He wasn't happy about it in the least. 

The door flung open, snapping him from his thoughts, and the Seer walked in.

"_When will I finally be allowed to leave this place?_" he asked as soon as she entered.

"_Soon. But not today._"

Tarnash stared at her hard. What was this female thinking right now? Did she, perhaps, plan to keep him in here, not to let him out at all? He was pretty sure she wouldn't but… you never know with females, do you, even if they do follow Ellistraee.

"_You will leave soon enough, Tarnash,_" she said as if she had been reading his very thoughts… And maybe she had? Tarnash shifted uncomfortably. "_But there are some things we must discuss first._"

"_Such as?_"

"_Such as, for instance, what do you plan to tell your Matron Mother once you leave this place? Who will you say resurrected you?_"

Tarnash had given this much thought already and recently, he came up with a quite satisfying answer.

"_Gulthrys. He is a wizard and it is not beyond him to have in his possession such a thing as a resurrection rod._"

The Seer raised an eyebrow "_And will Gulthrys back up your story?_"

"_He will._" Tarnash said assuredly "_He is a wizard and we both know that if anyone is feeling held back and prevented from accomplishing anything greater than being just a walking magic item it's the wizards. You see,_" Tarnash eyed the Seer almost hostilely, "_the wizards wield the magic no less powerful than the one wielded by the priestesses and in their fear of being outmatched, as many of them certainly would be, they keep the wizards on an even tighter leash than the rest of the males._"

The Seer saw Tarnash's hostility clearly, but she let it pass. After all, he did speak the truth, but she had more pressing matters than to try and explain that she, even though a priestess herself, did not act like that. Normally, she would do her best to explain that to any oppressed creature she met, but Tarnash wouldn't believe a word of it.

"_Very well then. Gulthrys it is. He has already proven he is pretty devoted to our cause…_" she let the sentence linger.

Tarnash gave a knowing grin. "_But I haven't._" he finished. "_And neither will I have a chance to do so as long as you keep me locked up in here._"

"_You are not locked up, Tarnash. You are here for your own protection and you know it._"

"_Protection from your own, Seer,_" Tarnash said gritting his teeth.

"_Yes. Protection from my own. Only this morning did I finally get Nathyrra and Valen to consider not killing you._"

"_Why, I thank you ever so kindly for your efforts,_" Tarnash said ironically, sweeping into a deep bow.

"_And you well should, Tarnash,_" replied the Seer coldly. "_None of us, especially those two, forgot the role you played in Imloth's death. And they are not going to. On top of it all, Valen now refuses to be anywhere near Shi'van and the entire plan of dealing with the beholders is now endangered… all that on the account of you being here and alive._"

Tarnash casually leaned back on the table. "_Well, if the tiefling won't go, I could,_" he offered.

The Seer studied him intently for a while. "_You would actually do it, Tarnash?_"

"_And why the hell not?_" he shrugged "_I'm already a dead man as it is… And don't forget I am no minor fighter myself. I wouldn't offer to do it normally but…_" a sly look appeared on his face, "_I know you have prepared many protective enchantments already and I also know they are the best they can be, since you were preparing them for one of your own… I doubt that you would go through that much trouble if they were for me, but now that yo'veu already prepared the proper ones…_"

The Seer observed him carefully. He was wrong, of course. She would prepare equally good protections for anyone going against the Eye Tyrant… Or at least, she would try hard to do so. This was, after all, Imloth's killer she was talking to and he didn't make this offer because of his sense of duty and a kind heart.

"_And if you go instead of Valen and manage to get the job done that would earn you enough respect and trust from our part for us to be willing not to take any revenge for Imloth's death and to even aid you after this is all over, right Tarnash?_"

Tarnash didn't blink. Of course she knew what was on his mind. It wasn't like he made a big secret out of it, either.

"_No, you will not go against the Eye Tyrant,_" the Seer decided at length "_Valen will do that, as it was planned… Whether he likes it or not. And you, you have a job of your own to do. Tomorrow, you shall leave this place, go back to your house and deal with Saldrin. I will back up the story of him being the only guilty party in that… incident, and then you will be free to assume the command over all of our troops. But mind you, Tarnash,_" she leaned close to him and eyed him grimly"_None of us will ever forget Imloth, or forgive you his death. You do this right and you will earn your life and my promise that, once this is over, me and my people will let you go without taking any vengeance on you. As far as helping you to get you and yours up on the surface however… You are on your own with that._"

She didn't wait for him to reply before she left the room. Tarnash clenched his fists. Damn it, this wasn't going like it was planned. He'll have to talk to Shi'van about it. She did, after all, promise him that she would get the Seer and her people to help him, all the way. She said she would do it, and now she'd better do as she said.

He took a deep sigh and ran his hands through his hair. Well, one thing at least was good. He'll be out of here tomorrow. And not a moment too soon. He was really beginning to hate this place.

* * *

Valen sat with his head in his hands. Ever since that meeting yesterday, when he learned of what had happened, he could barely control himself… And today's meeting left him in no better mood. All he wanted to do was to storm out and thrash something. He was already on his way to the training grounds, when he remembered that Saldrin was there. He knew he wouldn't be able to hold his rage in check if he saw the firstboy Maeviir now. Also, he remembered the many times he felt this same way and how, every time he went to the training grounds to calm himself down, Imloth was waiting there. But now, Imloth was dead… And Tarnash was alive. 

Valen gritted his teeth audibly. Yes, Tarnash was alive and it was Shi'van who brought him back. Entire array of emotions ranging from hatred to pain rose in his chest at that notion. Gods damn her black soul! How could she do that? And just to remember that she acted so casually all that time, in front of his very nose and all the while, she was only thinking about how to pull off her little scheme. And all that talk about Sigil and the Blood Wars and… He remembered her leaning close to him then and her words rang out in his mind:

"_Ultimately, there is no taint in any of us, save for the one we make ourselves_"

And how very true it was. Back then, it actually got him thinking. Could it be that he was wrong, after all? That his blood really didn't have that much, or even anything to do with his rage? Could it be that, in truth, it was the wars he had fought and not his blood that had so much effect on him, even now? Yes, he was thinking about all of those things, and more; but now, now he just thought about that sentence in the context of the shadowdancer. She was right when she said that, but the taint she spoke of was also her own.

Another thing she said popped up in his mind. The last words she spoke before they went back to the city.

"_I'm still the same bitch,_" she said.

Damn it, how could he be so blind to it? Why didn't he hear those words for what they truly were, why didn't he… And just to think that back then, for the first time since she first came down here, he actually found the time he spent with her pleasant. For the first time, he was actually intrigued as to what kind of a person she really was… And now, he knew. And he hated her for it. Once again, he hated her, and more profoundly than ever before. He gritted his teeth even louder. And just to think that, at one point in time he actually found himself thinking that maybe he might even…

He threw himself hard on the bed. Damn it! Will this going from bad to worse ever end? First, there was that whole episode with Zesyyr, the episode that left him embarrassed, angry and deeply hurt. Then, there was Imloth's death, which hurt him even more and now, there was this thing Shi'van did. And the worse was yet to come. He still needed time to get himself to go and do his part in the beholder plan, but already he knew that he would have to do it. But that meant working with… (he gritted his teeth and let out a small growl)… Shi'van again, and he wasn't yet ready to even see her without coming in for the kill, let alone to get himself under control firmly enough to actually work with her. And then, after that job was done, he would have to come back and take Imloth's place in training the troops. And that meant working with none other than Tarnash, the very same Tarnash who had killed his friend. Even worse, it wasn't really Tarnash who landed the final blow, but the firstboy, Saldrin. And he wasn't allowed to go against him either. No, it will be Tarnash who will get to kill that one and all Valen could do was to sit and say nothing. Damn it! How much more can he handle? And how much more pain will he have to endure before all this is over?

Not being able to come up with an answer and afraid of that answer anyway, the pained and enraged tiefling closed his eyes and, breathing deeply, did his best to prevent the tears from flowing.

* * *

"**_Just how many blades can pierce the breast_**

_**And how much more blood can they bleed**_

_**How much more weight can they stand to bear**_

_**Until all the pain that they carry**_

**_Breaks out into a scream…"_**

"_A Prayer," Shi'van Darkblade_

* * *

"_Ah, happiness is an inbox full of reviews." – one purring, satisfied Author. ;) Thanks people!_

**Yashal: **Seems like I hit the mark. ;) Hope your speech returned to you. Brace yourself though, there will be quite a few more twists before the end.

**Penname wa Silver B: **Told you already – I wouldn't be me if I didn't put Vhaeraun into everything. ;) Yeah, poor girl… she brought it on herself though, so she really can't go around complaining about it, can she?

**Black Sable: **Ouch! Hope you found your jaw. Hmmm… all right, I'll try to live up to my reputation. ;) I looked that Sapkowski fellow up on the net last night. Seems his books are so far translated into Czech, Lithuanian, Slovakian (neither of which I speak), Russian (which I also don't speak, though I can understand every tenth word or so), Spanish, French (my close friends speak those, but not me) and German (which I should speak, but due to being damn lazy, I don't). A shame really – hope his books get translated to either English or Serbian sometime.

**Night Vendiviel: **Oh, yes – that's exactly how drow pay back their debts. Luckily enough, Shi'van is a bit difficult to kill – You don't believe me? Ask Valen! ;) And you're right, they are somewhat scared of her now… then again, wouldn't you be? Well, I always tried to keep this realistic, at least as far as characters and their mindset goes. Seems like I'm succeeding (gives herself two thumbs up) ;)

**Essence Silverdragon: **I love that quote! I wouldn't go so far as saying she sold her soul though… yet. Cruel on the other hand – definitely yes. But don't make the mistake thinking she's doing it for the sake of saving the world. Does she seem like that sort of a character to you? Hey, as far as Shi'van's concerned, whoever wants the world can have it – she's motivated by purely personal and selfish reasons (hmmm… I did imagine her as chaotic neutral at first – come to think of it, she's more along the lines of neutral evil really). And am I ever so glad someone at least figured out it was Vhaeraun! Hey, who else could it be anyway? And you figured him out perfectly – not only that he's on the constant prowl for worshipers, but now that L'loth is gone… of course he wants to butt in. He did have a damn good reason to answer Shi'van's call, didn't he? ;)

**shadow0015: **Oh, you have no idea – took me days to come up with it! …compared to Shi'van now I feel kinda lousy too – took her only half an' hour. ;) And of course personal feelings played a part there – it's not like she cares too much about anyone else's… most of the time. Btw, if you're a music freak, then there's two of us. ;) Oh, and I'd suggest you keep your friends – just make them listen to Tristania. ;) Glad you liked those lines, they're pretty indicative, not just for that chapter but for further story points too: "_Enclasp my wrath in the prophecy of thine_"

**Indi-101: **Shame on you for being so lazy. ;) Well, here's the chapter, hope you don't consider four or five days a long wait. Glad you too think the plan makes sense… there'll be a devious plotter out of me yet. ;)


	15. Reflections

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van.

Sorry everybody it took so long to post this chapter. Had computer problems and been busy in general… yeah, and I'll admit to pouting about so little reviews too. Anyway, this chapter might drag on a bit, but I felt the need to reflect on some past events and also to show how recent events affected those involved.

* * *

**Reflections**

"…If the war inside my head  
Won't take a day off I'll be dead  
My icy fingers claw your back  
Here I come again

Feeling paranoid  
True enemy or false friend?  
Anxiety's attacking me, and  
My air is getting thin  
I'm in trouble for the things  
I haven't got to yet  
I'm chomping at the bit and my  
Palms are getting wet…"

"Sweating Bullets," Megadeth

**

* * *

**In the following days, Lith My'athar was under a strain. The threat of the Valsharess' army was getting closer and by now, everyone was feeling it keenly. The preparations for the oncoming attack (or, if things went bad, for a siege) entered the final stages. That, coupled with the Seer backing up his story about Imloth's death, made it relatively easy for Tarnash to assume the command over the troops. After he'd dealt with Saldrin, that is. Tarnash left his hiding place the morning after his last conversation with the Seer. The Firstboy died that same evening. Afterwards, Tarnash had some difficulties when he finally faced Matron Zesyyr but, with the help of Gulthrys, soon enough he managed to persuade her that all of his actions were for the benefit of the House and thus, for her own. Now, the Weapon Master was leading a part of his troops to the western gates where they would be put through another drill together with Osyyr's defenders. Another weapon master was observing him from the distance… 

Valen's tail swished angrily. He forced himself to take over at the training grounds even though the Seer didn't press him to do so. He did it solely as a test of his own self-discipline, to see if he could actually get himself to work with Tarnash in spite of the fact that he would like nothing better than to bash the Maeviir Weapon Master's skull all the way down to his knees. He knew he couldn't do it, of course - they needed Tarnash now… but that didn't stop him from entertaining such thoughts anyway.

Swishing his tail again, he turned to the remaining troops. All those who caught his gaze backed away promptly. His cold blue eyes burned with such fury that many of them were honestly wondering if they were going to get to see it displayed first-hand right now. Seeing it all, Valen closed his eyes and took a moment to steady himself. He must keep his rage in check, he repeated to himself, he must not give in to it. Any day now, he will be going against the Eye Tyrant and he will be forced to work with that… Her again, and just how the hell was he supposed to do that if he couldn't control himself even long enough to put his troops through a proper drill? Struggling against his boiling blood, Valen finally turned back to the troops and begun the training.

**

* * *

**"_It is not that uncommon for the followers of Ellistraee and Vhaeraun to join forces sometimes,_" the wizard was saying. 

"_No. And exactly the opposite is even more common,_" Nathyrra snapped back.

"_True. But with a common enemy being practically at our door now…_" Gulthrys countered.

"_We must all work together,_" the Seer finished. "_Just like we have until now, Nathyrra,_" she added, turning to the agitated female.

She understood the source of Nathyrra's anger, of course, but she couldn't allow this argument to escalate into a fight. Not now… and not ever, she silently added to herself. With both Gulthrys and Tarnash filling Zesyyr's ears with words of vengeance she will exact upon the followers of Ellistraee once this war was over, the Matron of the House Maeviir was satisfied and content, and thus elegantly removed from the game as the prime source of trouble within the city. Meanwhile, the soldiers and commoners of her House were indeed accepting Tarnash as their real leader more and more with each passing day. Though it was yet too early to tell whether the Weapon Master and the High Wizard were truly as devoted to the cause as they claimed to be, both of them were honestly working hard and were doing their best to keep their alliance with the Seer alive and functioning. …And that was all that mattered at the moment, the Seer reminded herself. Though the pain of Imloth's death was still strong with her and every time she looked upon his lifeless body that lay in the side room of the temple she was keenly reminded of just who was responsible for it, she had to admit that Shi'van had been right after all. Shi'van chose to bring back Tarnash instead of Imloth and in doing that, she brought them hope. Hope, and a chance to actually win this war. Was that then, the Seer wondered times and again, the reason the shadowdancer was sent to them? Was that the choice she was bound to make from the very beginning, the choice that left everybody else without one and that neither the Seer nor any one of her own could have ever brought themselves to make? Was that the reason Ellistraee sent her to them?

No, no that couldn't be so. Such was not the way of her goddess, she would have never allowed such a cruel and heartless thing to happen… But Vhaeraun would. Again, the Seer shuddered, as she had every time the Masked God of Night came into her thoughts. She could feel his presence clearly now. Not that his presence was anywhere near as strong as was the presence of her own goddess. After all, what he had here right now was but a confused crowd of maybe-one-day followers and he had no priests at all, but still… He had one who was following him true, and that was enough. And perhaps, Shi'van was his chosen from the very beginning. No, not perhaps, the Seer corrected herself - Not perhaps, but certainly. Shi'van was Vhaeraun's from the start… But why? He was a drow god and a god of males at that. Even if Shi'van had drow blood in her, that still wouldn't be enough for the Masked Lord to choose her as his representative here. For Ellistraee's sake, she was a female! …And she was no priest whatsoever! How could she, all alone, by herself, bring about the presence of Vhaeraun into this city? The Seer spent long hours pondering that question, has even called out to her goddess to give her a sign, an omen, anything at all, just so that she would know what was really going on... Just to learn why and how did the Masked God's presence grow so strong so quickly through the belief and devotion of just one? But of course, she knew the answer to that question already. Not that she knew the details, or anything tangible for that matter, but the Seer was certain that it must have had something to do with the shadowdancer's past. She was, after all, half-drow and one of her parents, her father, must have been a follower or even a priest of Vhaeraun. But why, then, had Shi'van never shown her allegiance before?

When she first came down here, she claimed herself to be a complete unbeliever in anyone or anything even remotely resembling gods, had in fact openly disdained them, claiming that she neither was nor would be a puppet to anyone whatsoever, least of all the gods. Though it all happened months ago, the Seer still remembered her first meeting with the young shadowdancer clearly. As soon as she recovered from the shock that her unusual way of getting down here has left her with (and it took her a remarkably short period of time to do so, too), she begun foaming at the mouth and cursing any and all who would even mention destiny to her, let alone the gods and their plans and designs. "_I, and I alone, am the one who creates my own destiny_" she said back then "_and if you, Halaster and especially the gods have some ideas as to what I am or am not supposed to do with my life, you can all just shove it!_" And then, when Valen first said that he neither trusted her nor believed in any kind of prophecies, especially those concerning her, she told him that he'd be a fool to trust her anyway and that, as far as she was concerned, she'd rather have even that geas Halaster cursed her with eat away at her very soul than to go ahead and fulfill any prophecy that "_any_ _idle god came up with in between farting and pondering upon whether he (or she) should scratch the left or the right buttock first!_" …And then she told Valen that he himself can also shove it and that if he was not capable of doing that himself she'd be more than glad to strip his pants, lift his tail, and show him exactly just what she had in mind.

The Seer smiled a sad little smile. Those two were really at each other's throats since the moment they met… But that was another story, and not one she had the time to think about right now. What was important now was that, when Shi'van first came down here, she was clearly not a follower of any god whatsoever. So what, then, did bring about such a drastic change of heart, so strong and complete that the sole strength of her fate in what she was doing was enough to bring upon her such attention of the Masked God; so strong that now even the Seer actually found herself occasionally glancing back over her shoulder and peering into the darkness, thinking that she caught a glimpse of a smiling purple mask observing her from the shadows.

The Seer placed her chin in her hand. Perhaps she couldn't tell for certain exactly what it was that changed the shadowdancer so much (though she thought she could very well guess and not be wrong about it too), but she was absolutely certain as to when it happened. Nathyrra's voice rang clearly in her mind as she was explaining to her the exact state of the drow prisoner she and her party found Shi'van with. Once again, the Seer found herself shuddering at the memory. What Shi'van did to that Eldath Ra'sin was so terrible that it actually matched the cruelty displayed only by the priestesses of Lolth…

"_Seer! …Seer!_"

Nathyrra's voice snapped her back from her thoughts. She turned around to see that Gulthrys was already gone and that Nathyrra had been obviously trying to get her attention for quite some time.

"_I am sorry, Nathyrra. I wandered away for a while it would seem. What was it that you wanted?_"

"_It's about Gulthrys, Seer._" Nathyrra looked away feeling uncomfortable. "_I… I have been working with him before and he has already proven himself in that business with the illihtids but… I am still not certain we can trust him._"

The Seer smiled gently and placed her hand on Nathyra's shoulder. "_Because he is working with Tarnash now, isn't that so, Nathyrra? And you neither trust nor like him, do you?_"

"_I would still like nothing better than to kill him, Seer._" Nathyrra admitted quietly, obviously ashamed of her words, but speaking them now because they were the truth. The Seer sighed.

"_I know, Nathyrra. And you are not the only one. But he is loyal and his help is invaluable to us now. I too would prefer if we were given another choice in this matter but… _"

"_But Shi'van left us none,_" Nathyrra finished grimly. "_And just when I thought that…_" her voice trailed off into the silence.

"_That you might make a friend?_" The Seer asked softly. "_And you are not the only one who thought so, child. Many here thought Shi'van to be…_" She pondered her next sentence for a while. "_Something different from what she showed us to be in the end._" The Seer turned to face Nathyrra fully. "_And they were right in their judgment, too. She truly was someone you could grow to like… even in spite of her tongue which, by the way, seemed to be spread from here to eternity, but… ever since that Eldath Ra'sin came into the picture, she has changed. You noticed it yourself back then, remember? You told me yourself that she grew darker somehow. And she did. But restrain yourself from judging her just yet, Nathyrra. She did what she did, and it did leave all of us scarred and in pain, but the war is not over yet and I sense that many things have yet to happen before this entire thing finally ends. We have been given a certain advantage now, and we must do our best to use It, the best way we can. Save your judgment, Nathyrra,_" she repeated "_We still have a war to win._"

Nathyrra lowered her head. "_As ever, you are right, Seer. I… I will do my best to stay focused on the tasks ahead and leave my personal doubts and questions for later._"

The Seer took Nathyrra's hands in her own. "_You know you can always come to me, Nathyrra. Whatever is troubling you, I will always have the time to talk with you…Whenever you need me._"

"_I know Seer. And thank you._" Nathyrra took a short breath and steeled herself "_But_ as _you said_,_ we still have a war to win, and I have many roles to play in that matter, so if I may take my leave now Seer… There is much I need to do._"

The Seer nodded to her, and Nathyrra took her leave.

**

* * *

**As soon as she left the temple, Nathyrra headed to the forge. Her head was spinning. So many thoughts and mixed emotions were swirling inside her that, at one point, she actually had to stop and lean onto something for balance. So many thoughts… So many. And what she was thinking about the most right now was Vhaeraun. 

Normally, for an ex-assassin such as herself, Vhaeraun would be the most logical choice of deity, but Nathyrra simply couldn't do that. No, she could never follow Vhaeraun. She knew that a part of her, that part that still was, and always will be, a proud and capable drow female, simply couldn't follow a god who firstly and foremostly favored males. True enough, Vhaeraun's faith did teach equality among genders and was focused on the destruction of Lolth's priesthood and their ways and on bringing the drow back to the surface but still… No, Nathyrra couldn't find herself on his path and not just because she was a female. That part of her that still believed that the females are, after all, more powerful than the males, was indeed just a remnant of her previous life; and she fought hard, ever since she first met the Seer, to overcome that part of her once and for all, and devote herself fully to the ways of Ellistraee.

And that was precisely it. That was the real reason she could never find herself among the Masked God's followers. She worshiped Ellistraee, with all her heart, and she walked the path of the Dark Maiden in search for redemption… in search of the light. There was a world up there, the surface world, with its bright days and star-filled nights that stood as the direct opposite to the caverns of the Underdark and the world of darkness that Nathyrra wanted to leave behind. There was the sky up there, far above the upmost ceilings of the up most caverns and far above the surface world as well, beckoning to her. And Nathyrra wanted to reach it. Nathyrra sought the sky.

With her brain occupied with those and many other thoughts as well, Nathyrra didn't even notice when her legs have taken her all the way to the forge… and to Rizolvir.

Rizolvir. That was another thing that has bothered her for quite a while. She'd always found she had a certain liking for the male, but until recently (she smiled briefly at the memory of him finally gathering the guts to ask her out) she never realized just how deep that affection of hers went. And, especially during the last couple of days, her liking for him grew even deeper. Could it be that she actually …loved him? She wasn't certain about it yet, but maybe, in time, she would do even that. If they get that time, that is, she reminded herself and a sour expression settled on her face. She knew very well that, like many others around here who had been following the Seer, Rizolvir never shared her religious beliefs. The fact that he wasn't a follower of Ellistraee was never a problem before, but now, with this latest twist of events that brought about the presence of Vhaeraun, Nathyrra was beginning to worry, not just about Rizolvir, but about many others as well. What if, when this was all over and they indeed defeated the Valsharess and headed back to the surface, those who formerly followed the Seer decided to take their chances with Tarnash instead? …And what if Rizolvir got to be one of them?

Later that night, as she was comfortably lying in Rizolvir's arms, her fears about those who might desert the Seer and turn to Vhaeraun's followers instead still remained, but Rizolvir did his best to assure her that he, at least, will certainly not be among them.

**

* * *

**Shi'van sat on the rooftop. Alone. Lately, she spent almost all of her time there, silent, pointedly avoiding everyone else. Even Deekin saw her only two or three times during the past week. That was just as well, for she didn't want her friend to see her like this, and Deekin was too busy with his wounded kinsmen anyway. So she sat on the rooftop - alone. 

She stared into the darkness, knowing that by now her eyes were completely dead. She could feel it. It was just like before, way back in time, when she was very young. Too young. It had been just her and her pain then, and it was just her and her pain now. The rest of the world was simply fading away. Or rather, it wasn't the world that was fading, it was her. She was fading, divided from the rest of the world by a thick, all-surrounding shield of dark, cold numbness that enveloped her like a cocoon through which no one could see and from which she observed the things around her as if they were happening to somebody else. Only they didn't. They were happening to her. But whoever might observe her from aside would never know if anything at all reached her. Things did reach her, they reached her and they hurt her deeply, but no one aside from her, wrapped inside that emotionless cocoon, knew that. …And no one will. She was growing numb, again, and no one could see her pain behind the stare of glass. A tear rolled out of her eye. She didn't weep. She treasured that tear, for she knew, that it might as well be her last one. She could still cry now, but soon, the tears would be gone too, and she would, once again, slip back into her void …completely.

But not yet, she reminded herself. Not yet. There were still a few things left undone and she had to see them through. She had to fight the void for a while longer, until this business was complete. After all, that was the reason she got into this state in the first place. That was what she sacrificed all the years she had spent fighting the void for. When the Valsharess was defeated and Tarnash begun to lead his own up to the surface, then she could allow herself to die inside …If she is not able to fight against it any more… and if she finds any reason at all to even continue trying. But that time was yet to come and until it did, she must fight. She had to keep her mind operating, even if her heart is on the run and her soul nothing but a handful of ashes. She had to keep fighting and she must stay alive and see this through.

Slowly, she drew out a slender stiletto, the same one she took from Zesyyr that day when she defeated her. It was enchanted not only to be sharp and to cut true, but also to drip acid into the wounds it made. She grasped it firmly in one hand and slowly, drew it over the forearm and all the way to the shoulder of her other hand, making a long, painful gash. She felt the pain keenly. A wellspring of tears rolled down her face, but she didn't cry out. Instead, she gritted her teeth and let her tears flow freely as the acid begun to eat away at her wound, sending waves of agonizing pain through her arm. She knew where to cut to make as little damage as possible but to cause the worst possible pain. And she savored that pain.

To feel the pain was to be alive…

**

* * *

**_Well, hope you like this one, people… hope there'll be reviews to show it too. ;) And to those who did review previous chapter:_

**Penname wa Silver B:** Well, there's fairly little Valen in this chapter, but there'll be more (as you already know). And will things turn out better in the long run? I suppose that depends on what one consideres "better" and better then what. The way I see it, most of the time you can just choose the lesser (or greater) between the two evils.

**shadow0015:** He-heh… As a member of the "rabid, venomous" species I can only tell you – You're so right! ;) Hmmm.. if those two statements caught your attention, then it appears that I wasn't that wrong in assuming that Valen would too. Yep – he should definitely think when dealing with "fairer sex" (though whatever makes us that "fair" is still beyond me ;) ).

**Essence Silverdragon:** Funny you should mention that about Deekin – I played with the similar idea myself for a while. I decided to cut it out, though – but who knows… And glad you too thought "The Prayer" was appropriate for Valen this time as it was fitting for Shi'van previously. Strange – it's the same poem. ;)

**Jemima Aslana:** Ah, always glad to hear from a new reviewer! ;) Thanks for your comments! Yes, I do like taking more-or-less familiar stories and turning them upside-down. ;) And I'm glad you like the constant Shi'van-Valen banter – I really tried hard to write those parts and to keep them realistic. Oh, and I hope the delay in posting this chapter didn't cause any really serious withdrawal symptoms. ;)


	16. EOB

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van.

Whew! Finally! This is the most complicated combat scene I've ever written! I'm still far, far from satisfied with how it came out, but it sure sounds better now that it did before. The credit for this goes to shadow0015. Thanks man! Your little polish-up was great help! Though, I _am_ getting better at describing combat lately… at least judging by what you said about the scene in Venom ;)

Anyway people, please judge this one with mercy – I re-wrote it more times then I can tell! Gah… there'd better be reviews for this one, else I'm pulling out. And just one more thing – it's damn difficult to write everything that happens during combat and still make it sound short and explosive. Please bear in mind – the whole beholder-fighting thing doesn't last longer then a few minutes really.

Oh, and if you don't know what's "E.O.B." it's the Eye Of the Beholder… and if you don't know what _that_ is… well, look it up! ;)

Oh, and I just couldn't resist but use more Megadeth lyrics here. But I think they fit damn well! ;)

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 12 - E.O.B.**

"…Ladies and gents, we're still alive By the skin of our teeth, now it's killing time  
Angel in our pocket, devil by our side  
We ain't going nowhere cuz' heroes never die  
Still alive  
Blood of heroes  
Never die  
They never die…"  
"Blood of Heroes," Megadeth

* * *

Tarnash was pacing the room nervously. _____"__Will you do it, already?_" he snapped at the wizard who was sitting in a chair and calmly observed him. 

_____"__I am doing my best._"Gulthrys replied _____"__And you know it. But will I do it or not is not up to me._" He focused his eyes on the Weapon Master fully_____"__It is not like those things grow just around the corner together with the mushrooms, and all I have to do is to go out and pick one. …It's more like trying to find mercy and compassion in the heart of the Spider Queen._"

_____"__Spear me your eloquence and just do it, damn it!_" Tarnash snapped and slammed his fist on the table. The table gave a little squeak and a bottle that stood near the edge crashed to the floor. Gulthrys jumped to his feet.

_____"__I'll do it if I can, Tarnash!_" he yelled _____"__And stop ruining my furniture and staining my carpet!_"

Tarnash glared at the wizard intently. The two of them kept their gazes locked for a small eternity. Eventually, Tarnash was the first to give up. He pushed his arms through his hair and stepped back.___"__Damn it. I might as well have stayed dead._"

Gulthrys chuckled and gave the Weapon Master a knowing look._____ "__You were given no choice, Tarnash. And even if you were, you would still not choose not to come back. …Life is a habit that dies hard._" he grinned.

Tarnash gritted his teeth. He knew that Gulthrys was telling the truth. Shi'van brought him back to life and offered him a chance to make himself a new life, a better life than the one he had known so far. She offered him the chance to walk the path of Vhaeraun, and he embraced the idea fully. She also offered to aid him, as much as she could, to earn himself the help of the Seer and her people in his efforts to bring those who would follow him up on the surface …or at least to Skullport, a city beneath the surface city of Waterdeep. But the Seer denied him her help in that, and so, the very next day after he had killed Saldrin (and what an enjoyable thing it was), he turned to Shi'van for assistance. Not that she had much influence on the Seer's decisions, especially now, but she still knew the Seer and her people better than he did and he hoped she might be able to give him some idea about what to do in order to get what he needs. She did have an idea, an idea that matched his own. Tarnash didn't like it. But the idea was sound and Tarnash was absolutely convinced that, should he manage to pull it off, the Seer's help will then be guaranteed. But that still didn't mean that he liked it.___"__It's your best chance._" Shi'van said. He remembered gazing into her eyes intently, but all he could see were two pieces of polished, emerald darkness and the deadly calmness of her voice left him shuddering. But her words were sound never the less, and now he was trying to pull off the thing that the two of them decided is the best possible option. He sighed deeply and turned to Gulthrys again.

_____"__All right. I know you're trying. Just… Damn it, if this fails we are practically left without options. And, we're also running out of time._"

Gulthrys observed him carefully. You got really warmed up for this whole Vhaeraun business, haven't you, Tarnash? Oh well. In the end, Gulthrys had to admit to himself that so was he.

_____"__Calm down, Tarnash. I'm on a good trail. We'll pull this off, just stop pacing around like a caged displacer beast. Go to the training grounds and do your job, and I will keep doing mine. Oh, and by the way,_" he added as Tarnash was about to leave the room___"__You owe me a bottle of wine._" He pointed at the broken bottle on the floor and the last of the fine green liquid that poured out of it and absorbed itself into the carpet_.____ "__High quality wine. …And consider yourself lucky that I won't ask for a new carpet too._"

Tarnash glanced at the carpet that, being a carpet of a wizard who was in habit of leaving fragile bottles of various contents all over his room, was by now so full of stains and holes that the greenish shade of the spilled wine actually counted as an improvement.

_____"__Yeah. Lucky me._" He grumbled and left the room, leaving the smirking wizard to …well, whatever it is that the wizards do in their spare time. He had no idea what that was and frankly, he wasn't too eager to find out either. Gulthrys can do whatever he wants as far as Tarnash was concerned, but please, Vhaeraun, let it be he does this job that Tarnash gave him first… and let it be he does it soon.

* * *

__

****

Few days later, beholder lair…

Valen's hands pumped furiously as he laid a blow after savage blow into the huge, toothed monstrosity know as the Eye Tyrant. He always figured killing mortals was much easier than killing demons – After all, if you remove a demon's head, all you end up with is something that tries to bite your ankles, but these beholders, although mortal, somehow weren't quite unlike the demons in that context. I mean for crying out loud, all there was to them was just a big, toothed head, no shoulders to remove it from, and man, did they try to bite your ankles. In spite of the fury of the battle, Valen snickered at his own thoughts. Not that it prevented him from keeping his attention focused on the fighting though. Didn't prevent him at all, and especially not now that almost all of his protective enchantments have been dispelled.

All three of them that were now in the middle of what seemed to them like an entire swarm of beholders came in here wearing all of the protections and enchantments the Seer could possibly provide them with. On top of that, while they were still in the Reaper's realm and just before they entered this place, Deekin also cast several of his own protections and buffing spells. Among those was the one that served to shield their minds from the effects of the fear, charm and the sleep spells, all of which the beholders could cast from one of their numerous eyes at will. They also had on themselves the protections from the effects of slow but that one went down almost immediately for the protection could last only so long and they all got hit by at least three slow spells the moment they entered the room. Twice already, Valen felt as if his feet were moving through a thick goo and as if somebody just hung a gargoyle to each of his arms and then told him to clap hands.

But it lasted only for a few seconds and it didn't take Valen much effort to shake off the effects of the spell. With another blood curdling battle cry, he launched himself forward and struck the Eye Tyrant again.

Behind the battle-frenzied tiefling, Deekin threw himself into another spell casting sequence. This time, he tried to cast some kind of a spell mantle that would shield him from the black eye ray that spelled certain and instant death to anyone caught in it's way. Before he could finish however, a beholder that was up until then levitating close to the ceiling suddenly went down and landed right by his side. Deekin promptly dodged to the side and only his impossibly quick reflexes saved him from disappearing into the beholder's huge maw altogether, complete with his wings. Finishing his roll, just the way Shi'van taught him to, Deekin landed in a low crouch, spun about on his knee and pointed the business end of his crossbow at the beast that just tried to make a short snack out of him. But by the time Deekin was ready to shoot, two other beholders have already joined the first one and now all three of them had their eyes focused on the little kobold.

It was all happening in the splits of a second, but for Deekin, time itself seemed to stop at that moment. He could see the very beginnings of beams forming in the eyes of the beholders. One of the them, the one to the left, shot two - one to slow and one to wound. The one to the right turned its eye to a huge chunk of stone that hung loosely some nine feet above and employed its telekinetic powers in order to bring it crashing down upon Deekin's head. But the beholder in the middle, the same one that just missed the kobold in his swoop from the ceiling, fired only one beam - The searing green colored ray that Deekin saw in use only few short minutes ago… The one that disintegrated a part of the wall! Should that one hit him and should he fail to resist its devastating effects, which was a very difficult task by the way, all that would be left of him would be a lingering little memory of a kobold. Deekin gulped. The cavern wall behind him, the beholders in front, and the green ray about to fly straight at him… Left with no escape route whatsoever, Deekin had only one option left. He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. And then… exhaled.

Valen slammed his flail hard aiming for the Eye Tyrants single eye, at the same time trying to dodge the impossibly huge muzzle that snapped wildly attempting to take not only his wrist, but the entire arm off. Dodging to the left, Valen ended up placing a part of his body into the anti-magic zone. All of his magical protections suddenly vanished.

Valen never relied much on magic to help him in combat. He was a warrior. An outstanding one. Years spent in the Blood Wars made him that way. Years of fighting… Years of experience. No dispel could ever take that away from him. But still, he flinched. True, he was a warrior and no stranger to fighting in a dead magic zone either. He had experience in theses matters. And what that experience now told him was that with all of his protections gone, magic-shooting behilders all around him and an angry Eye Tyrant barely an inch in front of him, he just got himself into serious trouble.

The next instant, a gust of hot wind swooshed beside him and sent his hair flying forward and into his eyes. He thought he caught a glimpse of flickering flames behind him and with it also came a strange sensation that his tail is on fire. Dodging another beholder that came in from the left in an attempt to bite his very head off, Valen turned just in time to see the small wisp of smoke popping out of Deekin's nose as the little kobold finished the breath attack and then… Hiccuped! …Loudly!

Valen stared at the kobold in disbelief. All that remained of the three beholders were three charred greasy spots on the ground. What the kobold just did was enough of a breath attack to shame even an adult red dragon! Damn it all, that kobold really was full of surprises!

But the tiefling didn't have the time to observe the grandeur of the still-hiccupping (!) Deekin. Another two beholders have joined the Eye Tyrant now and there were four more waiting up there on the ceiling. Without a second thought, Valen launched himself straight into the anti-magic zone before he got to be raked with four blasts of searing pain, simultaneously charmed, sent asleep and turned to stone and in the same time disintegrated twice. Maneuvering so that he would stay inside the no-magic zone at all times, Valen engaged the beholders in front of him fully. Hopefully, by the time this battle is over, he'll have at least some part of his tail that would not be medium to well done.

But the battle was far from being over yet. When the trio first stepped out of the binding and entered the lair, they no sooner made five steps when they got engaged by a party of ten. Drow, all of them, and in the service of the Valsharess, who came here in order to once again confirm the alliance. Fortunately, the drow party was as surprised them as they were. Valen, Deekin and Shi'van were the first to react and they dispatched the surprised drow quickly, but the brief fight left them with several of their protections gone and the sounds of battle also warned the beholders to their presence here. So, when they bursted into the chamber where the Eye Tyrant was, at least a dozen and some beholders were waiting for them. The three of them then rushed in and focused all their attacks on the Eye Tyrant in hopes of slaying it swiftly so that they could escape back through the binding as soon as possible. The battle didn't go as they have planned however, and they ended up fighting fifteen beholders, with more yet to come and the Eye Tyrant on top of them. They were running out of time. They were all wounded and loosing their strength. Valen was the first to be left without a single protective enchantment and Deekin was by now running out of bolts and spells alike. The only one among them who still had some of her protections left was Shi'van.

All around her, the battle raged, and all the while, she was constantly slipping in and out of the shadows, avoiding the eye beams and striking when she could. She was not a fighter, she was a rogue, and striking from behind was what she did best. But of course, it didn't take long for the beholders to realize that there weren't two, but three opponents they were fighting against and some of them turned their attention solely on the elusive shadowdancer. She ducked and dodged their eye beams and their gaping maws alike, but the beholders weren't minor opponents and many times already, Shi'van got hit by one or another painful attack. A few moments ago, she had used the dispelling beam from her ring in order to counter the black death ray an instant before it struck her. Her use of the magic item left her vulnerable to the other attacks though, and now her right side was bleeding and her arm was torn to shreds. Desperately, she grasped Enserrick in her bleeding hand and launched an attack that would drive her blade deep into the beholder in front of her and drain its life force in the process. Hopefully, that will heal her arm at least enough for her to keep fighting. But wounded as she was, she missed. She dived below the beholder and to the other side, only to find herself face to face with the gaping maw of another. Her first impulse was to go for it and drive her sword all the way into those waiting jaws, but in the last possible moment, she diverted her blow. If her strike was unsuccessful, she would end up having no arm at all with which to fight. She jumped away from the snapping maw and landed awkwardly on her side. She struggled groggily to her feet. A ray shot her right where she stood. The searing pain raked her body, adding itself to the already unbearable pain in her right side and mounting up to a crescendo that nearly sent her unconscious. Through the haze and the blackness that was closing in on her, she became aware that she was standing directly behind the Eye Tyrant now. Valen was just about to land another blow on it, but another beholder cut into his path. Barely aware of what she is doing, Shi'van ignored the beholders around her and put all of her weight and remaining strength into a leap that drove both of her blades deep into the Tyrant. She landed on her knees and at the same time, carried by the sheer intensity of her strike, the impaled beast moved slightly up and to the right …and straight into the path of Valen's descending flail.

Valen noticed the advancing beholder when he already begun his strike. He didn't have the time to stop or divert his blow, so he just continued with it, hoping that maybe, should he strike hard enough, he might launch the intercepting beast into the Eye Tyrant. But then, suddenly, the Tyrant was in the path of his weapon again. Having no idea how or why did that happen, and not about to question this sudden opportunity either, Valen launched himself forward, adding even more of his own weight into the blow.

And then he connected! In that single mighty sweep, he sent the Eye Tyrant flying to his right and down. A bloodied shadowdancer, her blades still stuck deep inside the beast went with it. Valen, carried by the force of his own blow slammed into the other beholder, picking it up with his shoulder and landed heavily on his knee. The beholder's teeth snapped shot around his left shoulder and upper arm.

Shi'van slammed hard on the ground and almost fell unconscious. Still, her grip on her blade didn't lessen and the sword was now sucking the last remaining life force out of the Eye Tyrant. New strength begun coursing her body, but it still wasn't enough for her to either pull her blades back or to avoid the eye beams of the three beholders that were now behind her. All of the five rays found their mark. Three of those sent the raking pain through her body and she jerked violently. At the same time, she felt the skin on her back grow harder and only the last protective enchantment she had about her saved her from being turned into stone again. The fifth ray however, would be her certain death. It was the green ray of disintegration and it was about to catch her in the side fully. …But then Valen stumbled into it's path.

Roaring in pain, the tiefling howled himself up on his feet and plunged forward in the attempt to somehow shake off the beholder that stubbornly clung to his upper arm. His attempt led him straight into the path of the vicious green eye beam and only the fact that he had a beholder clinging to him have saved him from being disintegrated himself. This way, it was the beholder that ended up catching the green ray fully. And in a single hiss, it was gone.

Deekin finished the spell. In a flash of red light, a huge fire elemental appeared right between Valen and the remaining beholders. With only a few spells remaining, Deekin had no options but to do that and now he could only hope that the tiefling's warrior instincts would tell him to get away from there while the beholders were still distracted by this sudden appearance of the new opponent. And Valen didn't disappoint him.

The tiefling spun about and broke into run that would lead him away from the elemental and towards the exit from the chamber. Split second earlier, he noticed that Shi'van finally managed to rise back to her feet and extract her blades from the corpse of the Eye Tyrant. He would rather if she just stayed dead here, but if they were going to get out of here at all, they will need her and her artifact. Satisfied with the fact that she was now back on her feet and following him close behind, he continued his run towards the exit, lashing out with his flail widely to the left and to the right and sending the beholders that were in their path flying away.

Few frantic moments later, all three of them stumbled through the binding.

* * *

Osyyr heard the commotion from the far side of the courtyard and got there just in time to see a tiefling, a kobold and a half-elf stagger out of the portal. They were a mess. Valen was barely standing on his feet, his armor raked and torn and his many wounds, most pointedly the one on his left arm were bleeding heavily. Deekin, aside from the other wounds he has sustained, had both of his wings seriously cut and one of them was also broken and it hung limply from his back. The moment they stepped out into the courtyard, Shi'van crumbled to the ground and was now but a heap of blood and shivers. 

Osyyr's arrival had saved Valen from the unwanted task of carrying the unconscious shadowdancer back to the temple. Not that he was actually able to do it - His vision was blurred and his arm hurt like all the devils of Baator were gnawing at it. Still, he gritted his teeth and, as Osyyr hoisted the dying half-elf up in his arms and shouted for his men to carry the kobold, he made his way into the city. Or, better yet, he tried to. After only few steps, Valen felt his strength leaving him and he fell on his knees. By the time the drow that Osyyr summoned have reached him, he was already lying unconscious.

* * *

To my dear, dear reviewers… Yeah, I'm suckin' up – Guilty as charged! ;)

And once again, sorry it took so long to upload this one. Now, I must ask you all one thing: Why doesn't anyone like Tarnash? (cries)

**shadow0015: **Well, this chapter is dedicated to you. What else do you want? ;) Yup, I did hope at least someone will find Vhaeraun presence spooky. Glad ot was you who brought it up – did you know that one of his aliases is "Shadow"? And what was that? Matron Witchwolf? Hmmm… I think I like the sound of that. ;) (goes away to find her whip)

**Penname wa Silver B:** Of course there will be more Shi'van! She is my main character after all! ;) And where I'm headed…? Agh, I wish I knew.

**Lord Onisyr:** I'm very glad you like the way I portray Shi'van and the way I weave plots. Thanks!

**Jemima Aslana:** Oh please, please, please… PLEASE – By all means DO BE a nitpick! Gah, I always thought that sentence didn't sound quite right, but I could never put my finger on it. Hey, such corrections are the reason I hunger for reviews – I want to improve my writing! How can I do that unless there is people like you to point out my mistakes. Hmmm… body parts in misplaced order… Must be I misplaced my head somewhere. ;) And the Seer..? Well, the idea was actually to show that not even she is all-knowing or all-observant. See, she spends most of her time in the temple and Natty's the one who's more in contact with the people, so Natty's bound to notice things the Seer doesn't. And besides, with the army approaching, visions haunting, Vhaeraun stalking and Maeviir complicating things, the Seer really doesn't have neither time nor the will to pay attention to one little Shi'van. Yes, Shi'van is a "prophetic saviour"… but not quite. She only came to Seer's visions because she got geased by Halaster and os thus bound, more then anyone else, to go after the Valsharess. But is she really the one who will kill her? Not even the gods know right now. So, she's not that important for the Seer to worry about her feelings and especially because the Seer likes her right now only a bit better then she likes Tarnash. There, I hope that clears it up a bit. Maybe I should focus more on that topic later on. And you're right about Shi'van needing Valen. I'm glad you noticed it and figured it out. ;)

**Indi-101: **Ah, hearing that I manage to keep things realistic is music to my ears! ;) Goes to show that I do manage to keep my characters 3D.. and that means a lot!


	17. Old Debts

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van.

**Important… so read it: **Many, many thanks to Penname wa Silver B who was kind enough to edit this chapter before I posted it! Gods know it sounded lousy before. And Jemima Aslana – thank you for offering to do the same! I did send you three emails by now, but I don't know if you got them cuz your replies never arrived. If your offer still stands, just drop me a line, please.

And sorry everybody it took so long to upload this quite short chapter... though, as you will find, it does have two nice plot twists in it. Anywqay, in my defence I'll have you know that first my keyboard died on me and then... things just started happening. But, here's the chapter at last, so enjoy. And review!

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter... I lost track, really ;) **

**Old Debts

* * *

**

**A week or so later…**

Tarnash gave out the orders for today, left the training grounds and quickly made his way to the temple. Gulthrys finally gave him what he asked for that morning and Tarnash was eager to get to the temple as soon as possible and finally be done with this business once and for all.

The Seer watched him as he entered. Just a moment earlier, Deekin had left. He was by now able to get out of bed and as soon as he did, he came to see her and to ask her if he could go out with the next scouting party that would operate near the beholder lair. The Seer smiled at the thought. It was clear to her why he had asked. He hoped that, after the Eye Tyrant's death, the beholders would be shaken enough for at least some of his kin to escape their slavery, and in case that happened, Deekin wanted to be there to help them. It had taken a lot of convincing to persuade him to stay and heal himself some more first. In the end, she made him a promise that the scouting party would be informed of the possible kobold refugees. They would be given orders to aid any kobold they might encounter and to eventually bring those that managed to escape back with them. Satisfied with that, Deekin left her, though he'd claimed that he was still in mind of going out there as soon as the Seer let him.

And no sooner had the kobold left, thanTarnash came in unannounced. Whatever it was that he wanted, the Seer hoped it wouldn't take too long. She had many things to do today and besides, she really didn't like the Weapon Master much.

Without a greeting save for a short nod, Tarnash stepped over to the table where the defense plans were laid out. By now, he knew all of them by heart, but he studied them for a moment before he spoke.

"_We could definitely use another commander here. This left line of defense will hold, and Osyyr and his lieutenants can manage the marksmen nicely, but we'll still need another commander besides me to lead the swordsmen._"

The Seer eyed him carefully. Why was he telling her this? Of course they could use another commander there, everyone knew that. What did the sly Weapon Master had in mind this time?

"_You have somebody in mind, Tarnash? One of your own maybe?_"

Tarnash grinned at her. "_Yeah. I might have to put one of my own in charge in the end, but… _" His grin remained, but his eyes were deadly serious now. "_It's someone else that I had in mind._" He tossed a rolled up parchment on the table and, without a word of explanation, left the room.

The Seer watched him in puzzlement. When he left, she picked up the scroll from the table and fingered it for a while before finally unrolling it. And when she read the spell inscribed on it, her eyes went wide with surprise and disbelief…

...X

An hour later, Valen's eyes were no less wide when the door to his room opened and Imloth walked in.

...X

"_Waste of resurrection scroll, Tarnash. You'll regret doing this yet._"

"_Don't remind me, wizard._"

* * *

********

************

Days later…

Nathyrra stared at the blackened mirror. "_What could have possibly killed them?_"

"_I do not know._" The Seer replied. "_I cannot scry on the Drearing's Deep._"

Tarnash rolled his eyes. "_Is there anything that you can scry on with that thing?_" A moment later, he clenched his teeth as the image of a marching army appeared on the mirror's surface.

Valen frowned. "_They're near,_" he said grimly.

"_Three weeks at the most._" Osyyr added.

Imloth stood silently behind the Seer, the hood of his cloak pulled low, concealing his face. He and Tarnash both made a point of standing as away from one another as possible.

"_Are we prepared?_" he asked in a low voice.

"_We are._" Gulthrys replied, sparing Tarnash the displeasure of answering Imloth's question himself.

Imloth looked at him from beneath his hood. "_Zesyyr?_"

"_Will be dealt with._" Nathyrra said flatly. Valen's tail swished. Tarnash smirked. The Seer lowered her head and quickly shifted the conversation back to the original subject

"_Even if we had the time to learn what happened to those scouts,_" she said quietly "_we have no one to send and..._"

"_I'll go._"

All heads snapped Shi'van's way as she suddenly stepped out of the shadows. Without another word, she moved across the room and headed for the door.

"_You won't have the time_" Tarnash called after her.

She stopped and glanced at him over her shoulder. The side of her lip curved up slightly.

"_Don't worry,_" she said, flipping the Relic of the Reaper in her hand, "_I'll be back in time to kill the bitch._"

Tarnash eyed her quizzically. "_Which one? Plenty bitches to kill around here…_" he said with a sly smirk. All eyes shifted his way, glowing dangerously. All but Shi'van's. The shadowdancer went stiff. Dark fire flashed in her eyes.

"_The Valsharess,_" she growled in response.

The Seer observed the shadowdancer intently. This was the first time anyone had seen her in days. She looked distant and dark. A long and very painfull-looking wound, still not completely healed, ran the length of her arm. Her eyes seemed dead and the black circles beneath them showed that she probably hadn't slept much. Coupled with that aura of numbness that surrounded her, the entire impression was the one of a walking dead …But the Seer saw something more. Hidden beneath all that, there was deep, brooding pain. And buried even deeper, there was rage. It lurked right there, in the corners of her eyes and now, at the mention of the Valsharess, it showed its snarling jaws clearly.

"_Why?_" She asked quietly.

Shi'van shifted her gaze to the Seer, but said nothing.

"_Why, Shi'van?_" the Seer asked again, "_After all the time you spent trying to avoid getting involved in all this, you suddenly started helping us more than we would ever ask of you._" Or want you to, she added to herself, remembering the silent mask in the darkness. "_Why?_"

Shi'van kept staring at her.

"_Because at one point, it became personal._" she finally replied.

"_I know. And it was more than obvious that it had something to do with Eldath Ra'sin. …But he is dead, Shi'van. You killed him yourself. Whatever grudge you held against him, you've made him pay for it …So why didn't you stop there? Why do you want to kill the Valsharess too?_"

It became clear to everyone now that Shi'van wanted to kill her… badly. And apparently, she would prefer to do it in a way even more horrible then the way she had killed Ra'sin Not that it really mattered. Not until now at least. But now, with the final battle so close at hand, the Seer had to know exactly how far Shi'van was prepared to go… How much (if at all) she could be trusted… How personal this whole thing was to her.

The Seer's voice was soft as she asked the last, the most important question of all.

"_Why do you hate her so much?_"

Shi'van stared at her hard, then shot a quick glance at the rest of the room, obviously wandering if she wanted all of them to hear it. She was at a loss for a long while, but in the end, she couldn't stay silent. The flames of hatred roared to life in her eyes.

Her lip trembled slightly, but she clenched her teeth and looked everybody in the eye, her voice quiet and bitter

"_Thirteen years ago… she killed my father. …And now, I am gonna kill her_."

The silence fell in the room. Before anyone could think of anything to say, Shi'van turned and walked out.

"_Jiv'undus whol jiv'undus,_" she whispered as she left, "…_Lu' vlos whol vlos._"

Pain for pain. ...And blood for blood.

* * *

**The following morning…**

Valen threw stuff in his backpack furiously. Imloth was nuts! No sooner had Shi'van left the temple than he had stepped forward and said he'd go with her. Damn! What the hell was he thinking All right, so it wasn't time yet for him to take his place as a commander, so what? Why the hell couldn't he just stay where he was a while longer and then… "_I can't sit idly any more._" Imloth told him "_And I'm not about to let her go out there alone._" Damn it, Imloth, and why not? She sacrifised him, gods damn her! And he… had merely shrugged? Or why not just send Tarnash instead? The two of them would get along wonderfully together.

Another bundle of bandages landed in the backpack. That bleedin' fool of a drow! Barely few days since he got resurrected and already he was out to get himself killed again. And just who did he plan to go with? None other than… $#& ...So how in the Nine Hells was Valen supposed to let his friend go alone? Argh!

With a final bang, the table drawer slammed shut and Valen swung his backpack over one shoulder. An hour later, the three companions stepped out of the binding in Shi'van's hideout and proceeded to Drearing's Deep.

* * *

_As ever, thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter and shame on all of you who didn't!_

**Penname wa Silver B: **According to you and to the rest of the crowd, that fight scene wasn't as terrible as I thought after all. …Or, you're just saying it to make me feel good? Well, whatever the reason, I do feel good, so thanks.

**Night Vendiviel:** First of all, hope your leg's getting better. Glad you enjoyed these last few chapters. Now, to clear things up a bit – that magic-negating orb found in the game is another thing I found to be perfectly stupid. So, I left it out. What stripped Valen off his protestions was the Eye Tyrant's eye beam – the beast can create powerfull dispels and dead magic zones. And Shi'van' _is_ scarry. ;) P.S. Valen's tale did get well done by the end of the fight… and it tasted great! ;)

**shadow0015:** Best month of your life, eh?smug grinGlad to hear that… and take credit for it. ;) Thanks for the tips. And once again – you've seen how awful the fight was – without your help, it would've stayed that way and then everyone would just flame that chapter and the I'd be very sad and… Well, you get the picture. And there will be more Tarnash in future chapters, so I guess you and the rest of the crowd might make up your minds about him yet. And I love long reviews… Does that mean I have to dedicate evey chapter to you in order to keep you writing them as long? ;)

**Jemima Aslana: **Again, don't, I beg of you, put those nitpickd of yours away! Ever! Seems like what little convo I wrote for Tarnash and Gulthrys portrayed them just the way I wanted them to be. And… well, I'm just glad you _wouldn't_ put it past me to off Valen… or other important characters for that matter. I would! And… I just might. wicked grin Oh, and I didn't really forget about Shi'van there. I just thought that not mentioning her earlier would give the impression of her being really hidden and shadowy all the time… until the shitstorm hit her, that is. But perhaps you're right – maybe I should've mentioned her earlier. Or not? Dunno. If I ever re-write that chapter (hardly likely though) I'll think about it. Thanks again for your offer to do some editing for me – gods know I need it! Hope my mails reached you after all.


	18. Join Me In Death part one

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van.

Well, I'm happy to announce that I heve TWO editors shredding this mess I''m writing – namely, **_Penname wa Silver B_ **and **_Jemima Aslana_**. Big thanks to both of you! These last chapters are a real mess and I don't evehn want to think about what would they look like if you weren't helping me out.

Now, many of you won't like this, but I'm afraid I'm running out of chapters now and… well, writing new ones is going damn slow. Therefore, don't strangle me if I don't update as fast as usual. Don't worry though – the whole story's plotted out… I just need some time to find the right words to tell it, that's all.

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 13 - Join Me In Death**

**part one – For Whom The Bell Tools**

**"… _In the blackness I exist  
Among shadows and the mist  
Without senses, without light  
Here I dwell in endless night  
In the darkness I stand lifeless  
In the stillness, in the silence  
Without breathing, without blinking  
Without knowing, without thinking  
Without purpose, save but one  
Slay the living that will come_…"**

* * *

The trio had arrived at Drearing's Deep last evening. It didn't take long to learn that there was something weird going on. Not only that a party of over a dozen skilled drow warriors and scouts disappeared here, there was also something disturbing in the very air of the place. The way the people - ex-slaves all of them - carried themselves, the odd way that rock gnome spoke, the obvious fear of the so-called priests… And above all, the dark, foreboding presence of the temple – The temple of Vix'thra, where the nameless chosen were taken, never to return.

Since neither Valen nor Shi'van were much in the mood for talking, not to each other and not to anyone else, Imloth was the one who got stuck with the job of asking around. What he learned was that the missing party had arrived here about a week ago. They too had asked questions, and got the same answers as Imloth. Apparently, the so-called priests that resided in the temple made themselves somewhat of a "protectors" of this place and it's people.. Every time the people needed something from the priests, they would ring the big brass gong on a plateau in front of the temple. And every time, the priests would answer the summons… For a price. For every favor they offered, they would pick one of the villagers, and take him, or her, inside. None ever came out again. As it happens, after few days, the missing scouting party decided that ringing the gong was their best chance of getting into the temple. And it was.

Only, they never came out again.

So now, the trio was at a loss. What should they do? Ring the gong themselves? Wait 'till the priests or one of the locals does it? Sneak in some other way? Well, that last idea was definitely out of the question, at least according to Shi'van who'd spent good three hours sneaking around the temple. "_No way in,_" she reported. "_No back doors, no windows, no nothing._" Waiting for something to happen was also not an option. They didn't have time for that. So, in the end, they decided to do the same thing the previous party had.

As if on cue, Shi'van and Valen glared at each other dangerously. Harsh words followed soon after.

"_Well, if that gong-thingy's luring the priests out, then let's ring it,_" Shi'van had said, "_And we find a way to sneak in while the suckers are busy 'picking'._"

"_Ring it and offering who?_" Valen had asked.

Shivan had merely shrugged. "_The previous party offered themselves. Look where it got them… _"

"_Allow one of the villagers to be taken in!_" It had been clear from the tone of Valen's voice that offering Shi'van instead would have been far more to his liking.

"_So? I don't give a shit if another one of these sheep gets slaughtered,_" stated the shadowdancer and… Well, that was when Imloth had stepped in and prevented the bloodshed.

Eventually (and after another very heated argument, this time between Valen and Imloth) they decided to ring the gong after all, but when High Priest Sodalis and his entourage came out, Imloth would offer himself while Valen and Shi'van remained hidden and ready to act should the need arise.

And it just did.

"_Vampire,_" Imloth hissed, the true seeing spell in his dagger revealing the creature for what it really was. Valen grabbed his flail. Shi'van slipped into the shadows.

And the world exploded…

Out from his hiding place Valen leapt, his flail leading the way. A surprised temple guard turned around just in time to catch Valen's swing straight into his head. On the other side, another temple guard collapsed silently on the ground. Someone in the crowd screamed.

The plateau in front of the temple burst into a fury of motion, a battle frenzied tiefling in the middle of it. At the edge of the fray, a dark shape stepped out of the shadows, only to return to them an instant later, leaving another corpse on the ground.

More screams rose from the crowd. The villagers broke into a stampede, stumbling and falling over each other in desperate attempts to get as far away from the fight as possible. The only two persons who remained calm in the midst of the surrounding havoc were Sodalis and Imloth.

The high priest looked the drow in the eye. The two locked gazes for a moment and then, Sodalis began casting a spell. Imloth, however, made no attempt to draw his weapons. Instead, he reached into his pouch, produced a small glowing gem, pointed it at Sodalis and muttered something. A ray of pure sunlight struck the undead priest before he got the chance to finish the spell. Sodalis howled. Imloth pointed the gem again. Sodalis lurched for the door. Five remaining guards followed, Valen at their heels. Seeing the tiefling charge wildly after the fleeing priest and the surviving guards, Imloth finally drew his own blades. For a moment there, he saw a slender shadow slipping inside as well, reddish glowing blade leading the way. With a wide grin, Imolth charged after them.

And so, in a fury of swirling blades, dancing shadows and Valen's thundering battle cries, the three of them made their way into the temple.

* * *

Shi'van swooned on her feet. They had been fighting for more than two hours, climbing floor after floor, only to engage even more enemies - namely, the temple guards; the cult knights. 

The creatures were some weird cross between humans and beasts, possessed of unnatural strength and speed. And as if that in itself wasn't bad enough, they also seemed to linger somewhere between life and death, thus making it impossible for her to effectively draw their life-force with her blade. And the creatures came on them hard every step of the way. Skilled though they were, they still weren't much of a threat for the seasoned group that stormed the temple… But they were many. And their vicious weapons were biting deep. The wounds those weapons inflicted weren't only devilishly painful, as the trio soon found out. They also caused severe bleeding. Too severe. The invaders could only hope that their supply of healing potions will suffice.

With a loud slam, the door burst open, a fresh score of guards ready to charge through.

"_Hold him,_" signaled Shi'van in a silent drow hand-code. Imloth promptly stepped in front of the tiefling, preventing him from entering the central chamber of the second floor, at the same time blocking the first guard's attack. Neither warrior knew what the elusive shadowdancer had on her mind this time, but neither were they in a position to ask. Imloth dodged another blow coming his way and launched a counter attack – a low sweep that knocked the guard off his feet – but instead of pressing forward, he stepped back and held his ground. Valen also kept to the door. For all his mistrust, he still knew better then to question Shi'van's actions in the middle of combat. If she didn't want them to enter the room, she must have had some damn good reason for it.

Shi'van recited the final words of a spell. The scroll in her hands crumbled to dust. And the chamber in front of her erupted with surprised screams.

Valen's jaw dropped. Many times in his life, he had opponents running away from him, but rarely, if ever, had any flown upward, shouting wildly. Imloth stared at the scene in front of him no less surprised. And the he begun to laugh.

He kept laughing as he sheathed his swords and reached for a crossbow instead. Behind him, Shi'van already had hers drawn and ready to fire. His jaw still hanging in surprise and disbelief, Valen leaned on the wall and stared at his two companions merrily dispatching the confused guards… On the ceiling!

That 'Reversed Gravity' spell was really something…

Some time later, the spell had ended and fully two dozen corpses dropped down to the floor. Some, Valen noted, were still twitching. Grasping his flail tightly, he entered the chamber and began finishing them off.

Still chuckling, Imloth let the tiefling give his rather modest contribution to this particular fight and began examining the chamber. Two dragon statues dominated it, a strange altar erected in between. Imloth's gaze instantly fell upon two longswords that laid on it. As Valen was finishing the last remaining guard, stepping carefully so to avoid slipping on the blood-covered floor, the drow made his way over to the altar.

Shi'van, up until then busy unlocking one of the two small doors, saw Imloth reaching for the blades.

"_Shit._"

Valen stumbled backwards as two dragon statues simultaneously breathed fire and lightning. Imloth cried out and managed to roll out before the blasts took him fully. Before Valen could even begin to curse his damn, greedy friend, more action erupted from the side of the room where Shi'van stood.

Just out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the shadowdancer rolling towards the closest cover, an ugly-looking undead quadruped at her heels. His flail already in hands, the tiefling charged in her direction, only to see more of the bony beasts pouring out of their hiding places along the walls.

One lept for his throat. Valen ducked, letting the creature fly clear over his head and then catching it with the flail in the mid-flight. Another one scurried over the floor and bit his leg. Valen howled. It had to be among the most painful bites he had ever received. Still howling, the tiefling fell on his knee, pinning the thing down, using his sheer weight to crush it.

Up came Shi'van from her roll, her blades working in circling patterns, confusing the creatures and keeping them at bay. Her chest was bleeding from the deep gash where the thing's claw caught her, and a bite mark showed clearly near her collar bone. Yet she paid her injuries no heed as she twisted and turned, gaining momentum and settling into her deadly dance.

She didn't even scream.

Imloth, however, did. Valen looked behind and saw his friend pressed against no less then ten of the cursed things. With a roar, he jumped up and charged to Imloth's aid. He wasn't going to allow his friend to die again, and to nine hells with Shi'van! Should she happen to end up dead here, his life would be a bit happier one anyway.

Twenty furious minutes later, Imloth drove both of his new blades into the last remaining creature, silencing it for good. Valen leaned heavily on the altar, gasping for breath. Shi'van was kneeling nearby, swallowing a healing potion and shuddering. Valen couldn't help but feel a slight pang of guilt at the sight. Still, the hatred he felt for her far outweighed it. With a grunt, he pushed himself away from the altar, swallowed a healing potion himself, tossed another one to Imloth and motioned for the two to follow. The fight was not over yet. They had a vampire to kill.

Without a word, Shi'van and Imloth followed the tiefling up to the highest level of the temple, and finally, wounded and tired, they confronted Sodalis himself.

Now, an elder vampire is a tough opponent for anyone, and being almost half-dead when you engage it, really doesn't help you much. Furthermore, if that vampire also happens to be a high priest and of a god who supposedly resides below the very temple you're in, the odds of defeating him become so unfavorable that even Lady Luck would find herself hard-pressed against them. Still, between a drow weapon master, a blood war veteran and a very stubborn shadowdancer, they somehow managed to bring him down …for now. And it wasn't easy.

If any of the companions had to describe just what happened there exactly, none would have had a clear answer to it. All they recalled afterward was a blur of motion, savage strikes and seemingly endless showers of spell after spell. Sodalis was more then prepared for them. He cloaked his room in magical darkness through which neither of the companions could possibly see. Yet he, an undead, had no problem navigating his own room and unmistakably locating their warm, living bodies. Though Imloth's gem dispersed the darkness somewhat, this time around the High Priest had his protections ready and the ray of sunlight served only to blind the companions themselves. Various traps, both magical and mechanical sprang at every step, filling the room with poisonous vapors or spraying caltrops and darts. Through all that havoc, Sodalis glided swiftly and silently, blinking out as soon as one of the invaders got too close, only to reappear behind the back of another and strike.

As the battle dragged on, the trio grew desperate. They were already tired from fighting their way up there and the clash with the vampire priest was draining them of the last ounces of strength they still possessed. The vampire, however, wouldn't tire. Nor would he run out of tricks. But, as it happens, he ran out of luck.

Still, he wasn't defeated. As he realized that the trio was gaining the upper hand in the battle, he turned into a wisp of thick, grey fog and disappeared.

Now, to truly defeat one of his kind, one must destroy the creature in it's own coffin, usually by driving a holy stake through it's heart (beheading it, stuffing it's mouth with garlic or lemon and, if it's at all possible, giving it a nice big holy-water bath… or so the stories say) All the trio had at their disposal were splinters and pieces of broken furniture and a big hope that it would do the trick. However, a thorough search of all the rooms (hidden ones included) revealed nothing even remotely resembling a coffin. They knew it had to be somewhere in the temple, but where exactly, they had no clue. Nor were they in shape to go look for it further.

Both Imoth and Valen had at least a dozen wounds each, severe enough they should have bled the two warriors to death. Which is exactly what would've happened, if only it hadn't been for those fire elementals that Sodalis had summoned at one point. Their fire attacks did wonders to cauterize the bleeding… but they left the wounds burnt and even more painful. Still, both warriors were still standing. The years each had spent fighting left them endurant enough to push through even the most difficult of battles and to stand in spite of even the most dire of injuries. A few healing potions and a short breather, and both could go on for at least another hour or so.

But it wasn't so with Shi'van. She wasn't a warrior like the other two, and despite her truly outstanding endurance and even greater stubbornness, she still couldn't keep herself on her feet much longer.

Pointedly ignoring the condition of the trembling shadowdancer, Valen swallowed another healing potion and moved to the door. "_If we give them any more time to prepare themselves, we're as likely to win this fight as an imp fighting a glabrezu,_" he told Imloth on his way out.

Nodding in agreement, Imloth moved to follow, but then saw that Shi'van was still standing where she was, breathing heavily and leaning on the wall for support. Seeing that she is not following them out, Valen deigned her a scornful glance.

"_Move it, Darkblade,_" he growled.

Imloth took a moment to study the shadowdancer better. She did move when she was told to, but it was obvious that she couldn't go on. She needed to rest, and Valen and himself could use an hour or so of rest as well.

"_No._" he said, stepping back into the room and raising a hand in front of Shi'van. "_You need to rest, Shi'van. And so do we,_" he added, turning to Valen. Valen frowned

"_I'm fine. Let's go,_" the shadowdancer mumbled stubbornly.

Imloth glared at her. He had no doubts that her mind was fully set on keeping her body going as long as necessary. A pity her body refused to cooperate. "_Damn it girl, do you really need to prove yourself to us so badly that you are ready to drive yourself beyond the very limits of endurance just to keep up the pace?_" he thought. Obviously yes. Imloth realized that long ago. He also thought he knew why she needed to do that.

"_Uln'hyrr,_" he snickered. "Liar." "_You force yourself to take another step, you'll collapse._" Both Valen and Shi'van shot him a glare. He ignored it. "_They're already prepared for us down there,_" he said to Valen. "_We can give them an hour more. I, at least, am in no mind of starting another battle as shredded as I am. If they are already prepared, resting a bit won't make much difference, but at least we won't go down there already half dead._"

Valen stared at his friend. It did make sense, of course, but it was clear to him that the real reason Imloth changed his mind about going down there right away was a few feet away and swooning on her feet.

"_And who will stand guard?_" he asked sourly. The drow just grinned and pointed his hand Shi'van's way. She was already standing with her eyes closed, concentrating. A moment later, a huge shadow wolf appeared from the corner of the room and promptly moved to the door. Remembering one of his previous encounters with the beast, Valen promptly moved out of his way, swearing to himself that should he catch Karandras even thinking about lifting his hind leg, there would be only a shadowy speck of a wolf left on the floor.

"_Hour an' a half at the most._" Imloth said to Shi'van. She nodded, swallowed another healing potion and lay down beside her shadow companion. Valen made his way to the far side of the room and settled himself there. Shaking his head, Imloth followed him.

The drow sat down next to his friend and observed him closely. He understood the tiefling's frustration perfectly. He himself didn't really appreciate being left for dead, especially not if Tarnash was the one to get resurrected instead, and he could only imagine the amount of pain (and, in Valen's case, rage) it brought to his friends. But still, Imloth could not truly hate Shi'van. And surely, not after what they all heard her say back in the temple. No, he couldn't and he didn't hate her. Rather, he understood her actions, just as the Seer did.

But not Valen. Imloth had already talked to Valen about it. He pointed out that, aside from making a perfectly rational and tactically correct decision, if it wasn't for Shi'van, Tarnash would never get himself to bust his and his wizard friend's ass off in order to find that resurrection scroll. "_Yeah. And their search for it could have as likely as not proven to be a futile one. She sacrificed you, Imloth._" the tiefling contered. And he was right. Shi'van did sacrifise him. But then again, Imloth was ready to give his life for the cause anyway. Which was exactly what he told Valen, many times. Obviously, it didn't help much. Valen was still treating Shi'van as If she was …a baatezu, and he was barely restraining himself from killing her. Or at least, that was the impression he left. But Imloth knew his friend better. There was something more to it than that .

Noticing he was being observed, Valen propped up on his elbows and frowned. "_Yes?_"

Imloth smiled. "_You should really give her a break, Valen. She's doing her best._"

"_Doing her best to what?_" the tiefling grumbled.

"_To help…the best way she knows how._"

Valen rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "_Are we back to that again, Imloth? I told you already - I can barely stand the sight of her, damn it! Just because you've …forgiven her, and you are completely crazy for doing it by the way, doesn't mean that I can too. Nor that I want to._"

"_You can't or you won't?_"

"_Both!_" Valen answered sharply. "_Look, I don't want to talk about it, all right? The sooner all this is over the better …and may we never cross paths again as long as I live._"

"_One would think you had more compassion in you, Valen,_" Imloth scolded.

"_What do you mean?_" Valen sounded hurt.

"_You know damn well what I mean! That girl's a mess, damn it. She's barely more alive than these vampires here. And I'm not talking about her wounds. When she first came down here, at least she had a spark of life in her eyes. Now, it's all but gone, and all that because she finally decided to try and help us._"

"_Better that she didn't,_" grumbled Valen, looking away. "_And we both know she's not doing it for us. The selfish little creature's doing it for herself… as always._"

"_True, but…_"

"_Hey!_" snapped Valen. "_Why are you always on her side?_"

Imloth looked at him sharply. "_I'm not on anyone's 'side', Valen. And her reasons for doing this are reasons I can sympathize with. And I thought you would, too._"

Valen sighed deeply "_And so I do,_" he admitted,"_Up to a certain point, I do. But that still doesn't change the fact that..._"

"_She hurt you?_" Imloth interrupted, "_That's what this is really about, isn't it?_"

Valen stared at him incredulously. Just what in the world was his friend talking about?

"_Look, we're all under a great deal of stress here – the Seer, Nathyra, myself… everybody. None of us find it easy to cope with that. We can be drow all we want and claim we're accustomed to such pressure, but we all know better than that. And you, my friend, had Zesyyr to cope with on top, in a much more… errr …intimate way than any of us._"

Valen's face turned sour. "_What's your point, Imloth?_"

"_That all that pressure had to go out somewhere. By all I've heard from you, traveling with Shi'van was never really pleasant... Though I must admit that a lashing tongue is something I thought you could handle a bit better. But however unpleasant it was, it did help let the steam out._" Valen tried to say something about Shi'van herself being the cause for steaming most of the time, but Imloth cut him short. "_Bottom line,_" he said sharply, "_you two had some sort of companionship, no matter how …explosive it was. And you yourself told me that, in the end, you even began to enjoy it somewhat._"

Valen lowered his head. Yes, in the end, he did find it enjoyable. But no sooner than he did, the damned dancer did… what she did, and made him want nothing better then to kill her... again.

Imloth observed the pained expression on Valen's face. "_Valen,_" he said softly, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder, "_in spite of all your differences, you two are more akin to each other then either one of you cares to admit. You resent her… And at the same time, you understand her. You told me yourself that, at one point in time, you even thought she might even be something of a friend to you, but the very next day, she turned out to be something completely opposite of what you thought she was. And it's not just this last thing that she did. It happened time and again. And now, you find yourself at the loss. You don't know what to make of her. _" He looked the tiefling in the eye. "_And you won't know until you talk it out… With her._"

Valen stared at him in disbelief. "_Talk?_"

"_Yes. Only then will you know for sure just what you think of her. Do you like her, do you hate her... or do you simply not give a damn about her at all. But you won't find any peace until you learn that. You'll just be in pain... confused… Hells, you know what I'm talking about._"

Valen took a deep breath and looked away. He did know what Imloth was talking about. For weeks, he had felt like his very soul got caught between a rock and a hard place… And all he was doing was running in circles and biting his own tail. The inside of his chest felt like exploding and… But the prospect of talking to Shi'van, and especially of himself being the one to initiate the conversation didn't sit well with his guts. Still…

"_Fine,_" he said at length, "_I'll do it. Once we are back in the city… Or even here, if we get the time._"

Imloth grinned. "_Good. I'm sure a little conversation instead of growling and fighting is not beyond your abilities. You're both adults… I hope._" Valen turned and glared at him. "_And besides_" - Imloth's grin grew even wider -"_I am beginning to become quite tired of playing the living shield between you two._"

Valen smiled and shook his head "_You know what Imloth? You really are a case for the Bleakers._"

* * *

_For those of you who don't know – Bleakers (Bleak cabal, that is) are one of the fractions in Sigil whose basic motto is that we're all crazy, the world is crazy and so on. And, logically enough, they are in charge of Sigil's asylum. So, what Valen told Imloth basiclly means that he's ready for the nut-house, and I, for one, agree with him. ;)_

_Now, on to reviews (And I want more of those! Must… have… more… ;) )_

**Penname wa Silver B:** Yup, Imloth's back! At first, I wanted to leave him dead, but… I needed someone to stand between these other two idiots, lest I stay without my main characters. ;) And Shi'van's dad? Heh, I'm not revealing that just yet… Have patience.

**shadow0015:** Thanks for keeping track of my chapters. Though, as you can see, I decided that THIS will be chapter 13. The previous one was just a tie-in. Anyhow, nice to have someone mention the Seer from time to time, and it also seems like Tarnash has a new fan. ;) My. Almost makes me want to write a fic about him one of these days. Yeah, crazy "queen" indeed offed Shi'van's dad… but don't forget it happened quite some time ago… and Shi'van wasn't half the bad news then as she is now. Strategy now… Nat's busy elsewhere, managing scouting parties and offing an occasional Red Sister or two. Besides, I really couldn't think of a smart way to push _her_ into this whole Vix'thra business and let her live through it. Lastly - 'Shadow, you're a genius... you're the most amazing reader I have... but if you don't review my story I'll kill YOU, not myself. ;)

**Night Vendiviel:** Much like everything else, I don't, by any means, like Drearing's Deep. Thus, I tried making it a bit more interesting and plausible. I just hope I succeeded. ;) Oh, and that orb? I just couldn't imagine a whole bunch of beholders having a big hole in front of their main chamber… and never once going down there and dispatching the one thing that can defeat them.

Jemima Aslana: What do I tell you? Well, everything I want really, now that this whole email mess is finally sorted out. ;) Oh, and thanks for advertising my story around. Just keep doing it – I won't complain. ;)

**Billy:** Yay, yay, yay! New reader! And one who isn't put off by so many chapters! I suppose I could start blushing now, having received such a nice comment on my English… but I can't, 'cause now everybody knows it's my editors who really know the language, not me. ;) Still, if you encounter any more grammar mistakes, you can blame _them_ for it… Just kidding. Thanks for the review, and I hope it's not the last one form you (hint, hint, nudge, nudge)


	19. Join Me In Death part two

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van.

**One tired author's note: **I re-wrote some parts of the chapter prior to posting it and now I can only hope that I got those action scenes right.

For those who are interested to know (and I suppose that, if you're reading this – you are) that next chapters are coming along nicely, though I'll likely be dead by the time I make them sound right. Though, I might be spared the fate of dying such gruesome death ("…and the police found her with her head on the keyboard that was dripping with blood…") by dying a slightly cleaner one at the tip of one very angry drow's sword. I refer, of course, to Imloth who (and I quote Pen here!) "_never asked to babysit two temperamental half-humans, but there ya go_" ;)

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 13 **

**Join Me In Death part two - Girl Business**

* * *

**Hours later, lower chambers…**

"_Free me …AAARGH!_" The deva's words ended with a scream. Shi'van let go of the lever and jumped back from the strange device. A nearby pile of bones stirred. Both Valen and Imloth reached for their weapons.

Valen shot Shi'van an angry glare."_What the hell do you think you're doing?_"

Shi'van shrugged, not looking his way.

Imloth, too gazed at her. "_Shi'van?_"

She toed the bone pile and shrugged again. "_What the hell do I know? It's not like there was a 'How to Operate This Shit' manual lying next to that gadget._" she said flatly.

"_Then don't touch it!_" growled Valen.

"_Fine,_" Shi'van replied another shrug.

"_Wait! You must free me! …Please._" The deva pleaded desperately.

Valen turned to her and bowed his head slightly. "_We shall, lady Lavoera. As soon as we find a way._"

The trapped deva shuddered. This was a tiefling talking to her, and his kind was not really known for aiding celestials. Still, his voice was kind and his eyes sincere. "_Please._" Her lips trembled. "_You must get me out of here._"

Before either Valen or Imloth could say anything, Shi'van turned sharply.

"_Will you zip it with that pathetic whining already!_" she snapped.

Valen gripped his flail and growled, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "_Show some respect, Darkblade._" he snarled "_If you even know what respect is._"

Shi'van returned his glare. Once again, Valen found himself staring into the void of her eyes. Her blank stare was so intent that, in spite of himself, he felt the sudden urge to back away. Still, his anger was not diminished and he kept his gaze locked on her.

"_Just what,_" she finally said, her voice a silent hiss "_is there to be respected, tiefling? An incompetent, whining bundle of feathers playing the oldest 'damsel in distress' game in the multiverse? Sorry. I already told you once – I've no time for weaklings._"

"_That's enough, Shi'van!_" Imloth snapped suddenly, before Valen could turn his fury loose. "_You're out of line! And you,_" he turned to Valen "_Control yourself. …If you want to kill each other, do it later. We're still not done here._"

Valen ground his teeth and backed away. Shi'van lowered her head. Valen noted it clearly. It wasn't the first time she had done that. "_Why in the Nine Hells is she so obedient whenever Imloth tells her to do something?_" he wondered. He looked at his drow friend, but Imloth already turned his back to him and addressed the deva.

"_Lady, do you have any knowledge at all as to how that machine works? Or how might we use it to free you?_"

The deva turned her frightened eyes to the drow "_I …I know there is some kind of a lever. One of the creatures here has it. They… I've seen it used only once… and that was when they imprisoned me here._"

Imloth rubbed his chin. "_Hmmm. I suppose that could be it, then._" He turned back to his companions _"Shi'van?_"

"_Could be._" She shrugged "_Haven't seen anything like it, though_" All the while she kept her gaze to the ground and her voice hushed. "_How do you do it, Imloth?_" wondered Valen again.

"_Then likely, we haven't yet seen all that there is to be seen in this place._" Imloth concluded. "_Seems like we still have a vampire or two to take out._"

Shi'van stirred at his words. With their ability to shift into a gaseous form, those damn bloodsuckers could be anywhere. She looked behind her uncomfortably. They had been fighting vampires for hours now. She didn't like it at all. The cold vampire bodies could not be revealed by the darkvision, so the trio had to keep a source of light about them at all times, which left Shi'van with little shadows to hide in. Not that it mattered much. The shadows couldn't hide her from those creatures anyway. They were undead. They felt her lifeblood coursing her veins, no matter how deep in the shadows she was."_Well what do you know._" she thought to herself "_Must be I'm alive after all._" She looked at her hands. Her palms were bloodied and torn from all the stakes she's been driving into the defeated vampires' chests. She couldn't aid the two warriors in any other way. Slaying vampires was simply not a job for a shadowdancer. So in the last few hours, all she had been doing was following the trails of mist to their coffins and driving the improvised stakes through their hearts, watching them crumble to ashes while listening to the sounds of Imloth and Valen fighting further away. More than once, she wondered what would happen if she drove one of those stakes through her own heart? Would she too crumble to ashes? She suspected she just might. The way she felt, there was hardly anything left of her but ashes anyway…

"_Figures._" Valen grumbled. "_After all, we haven't met our old friend Sodalis yet. And I'll bet he is the one who has that …stick, or whatever it is._"

"_But please! You must find it!_" the deva pleaded again.

The pathetic whining of the annoying celestial yanked Shi'van back from her thoughts. "_You want out of there feather brain! _"she snapped at the deva. "_Are you helping us any? No? Then shut up!_"

Next second, Valen lashed out to slap Shi'van in the face. Imloth caught his wrist. "_Enough!_" he yelled "_Both of you! …And don't even think about it._" he snarled at Shi'van as he saw her reach for her sword.

She shot him a defiant, enraged glance and her hand lingered over the hilt for a few moments. But then, she let her hand drop and lowered her eyes again.

"_Let's go._" Imloth hissed and started toward the last corridor they hadn't been to yet.. "_We'll be back, lady,_" he said to the deva behind.

"_Please do,_" she whispered back.

"_And not another word._" Imloth snarled, before Shi'van could open her mouth again. She breathed in sharply, but kept her tongue leashed. Valen was also about to say something, but he too decided against it when he noted the sheer intensity of anger on his friend's face.

Imloth ground his teeth as he walked. Those two were really starting to get on his nerves…

* * *

According to what they've been told by the deva, the reason these vampires imprisoned her was her potent, angelic blood that the strange machine she was bound to slowly drained her of. Apparently, her blood was used to animate huge bone golems - the donators of bones needed to create them being all the unfortunate victims that served as vampires' dinner first. Now, what possible use could the vampires have for these creations? The trio was well aware of the fact that the Valsharess had some undead allies as well. The moment they stumbled upon the group of drow emissaries, the last of their doubts about these vampires being the said allies were dispersed. 

The drow came in on them hard. A bolt of lightning threw Imloth to the opposite wall. Three warriors tried to drive Valen in line for the priestesses next spell. Karandras leapt for the wizard's throat. Shi'van was nowhere to be seen.

Imloth's breath was still shallow from the impact, but he just shook his head groggily and charged again. One of the soldiers fighting Valen went flying. The wizard clutched at his throat and went down in a heap. Another soldier crashed heavily on the ground, screaming as Imloth took his arm in a single strike. One of the two remaining Red Sisters sensed danger behind her, but turned only in time to catch a red glowing blade from the shadows fully in her chest.

Imloth grinned to himself. This wouldn't be a long fight after all. He sent another opponent down and charged towards the priestess. Then suddenly, Karandras growled. Imloth stopped short. Valen fell down

The shadow master had joined the fight … and he knew his job well.

Shi'van's mouth went dry. Valen was on his knees, choking. His chest was pierced through. Blood rushed into his lungs and came pouring out of his mouth. Not even a healing potion could help him now.

For as long as she could remember, Shi'van had an uncanny talent for thinking fast on her feet. She knew she had but a split second in which to act. And there was only one thing she could do.

Shi'van jumped out of the shadows, and broke into run. Time seemed to freeze. Into the air she leapt, a drow corpse serving as a springboard and a red-glowing sword leading the way. She flew past Imloth and clear over Valen's head, landing on her knees behind him …and driving her sword straight into the stunned priestess' belly.

A healing potion couldn't save the tiefling. But perhaps a certain vampiric sword that healed it's wielder by transferring the stolen life energy of it's victims could.

"_Grab it!_" she screamed at the tiefling.

The next instant, time began flowing again.

The same moment Shi'van began her leap, the shadow master begun his own. The moment Shi'van landed, his own blades had already nicked Imloth's throat. Out of nowhere, Karandras jumped. He crashed into the shadow master hard, buying Imloth just enough time to duck away. The shadow master rolled low, sprang up, and drove one of his blades deep into the shadow wolf's side. Before he could go through with the kill though, Imloth came in.

Shi'van grabbed Valen's arm and slammed the hilt of the sword hard into his hand. The priestess screamed. Karandras howled in agony. Shi'van sprung up.

"_Go home!_" she yelled to the wolf, shifted her other blade in her right hand and jumped into the fight.

Karandras disappeared in a wisp of smoke. Few seconds later, so did the shadow master.

Quickly, Imloth threw a stake to Shi'van. Twice as fast, a trail of mist hissed out of the corridor. Shi'van caught the stake and broke into run.

Valen went down on all fours and begun coughing and spitting blood.

Later on, Shi'van returned and tossed Imloth the lever they needed to free the deva. When Imloth was about to turn and leave, she launched a small bundle of things his way, the head of a golden-white mace sticking out.

"_Guess these are hers,_" she said. Imloth caught it and went down the corridor.

Valen lingered behind. He observed the dancer as she moved to pick up her sword - The same sword she had used to save his life. The dull ache inside his chest reminded Valen of that fact with every breath he took.

He chanced a deep one anyway.

"_Thank you,_" he said with a nod.

Shi'van merely shrugged and slid the sword back into scabbard. She walked past him and started out of the room. Valen swiftly stepped in her way and looked at her seriously. The memory of two shadowblades piercing his lungs from behind flashed brightly in his mind. In fact, they were so vivid he could actually feel the barbed edges cutting him even now. He remembered the blood coming out of his mouth, the sudden lightheadedness as the sounds around him faded and the sharp, burning sensation in his throat as if he had just swallowed a handful of caltrops.

That shadowmaster stabbed hard and true indeed.

And this shadowdancer saved his life.

"_Why did you do it?_" He had to know.

Shi'van gave him a quick once over and shrugged again.

"_You're one of the good guys. Good guys never die in the books._"she said, moving around him and after Imloth. "_…Only the bad girls do._"

A long while after Shi'van disappeared around the bend, Valen was still standing and staring after her.

* * *

**Few hours and even more vampires later…**

"_Oh, die already._" Shi'van said to Sodalis, and drove a stake through his heart. She then emptied a vial of holy water over him for good measure and finally, slammed the coffin shut. Imloth grinned.

Poor Sodalis. When he first stepped in front of them, wounded and tired as they were, he must have thought them an easy pray. But he never even got the chance to finish a sentence, let alone attack. First, he got compliments from Shi'van in a form of a crossbow bolt – a nice reminder that victory speeches should be given only after one's victory. Second, he got intimately introduced to the business end of a two-handed flail. Next, he found himself smoldering under a bright ray of pure sunlight. And then on top of it all, just as the stunned vampire tried to figure out what the hell hit him, a pretty angry deva swooped down on his head.

Poor Sodalis. He might have been a powerful vampire, he might have been a mighty priest, but in the end, it turned out he was one thing too many – Too damn cocky for his own good.

* * *

**Elsewhere…**

She glided through the shadows gracefully, across the rooftops and down again, through the twisting walkways of Lith My'athar. Her light adamantium chainmail hugged her slender body tightly, twisting and bending in perfect harmony with her movements. A long, barbed whip adorned her hip, countless darts concealed comfortably in every convenient place on her person - in her clothing or fastened to her bare skin beneath. Soundlessly, she stalked around the edges of the city and then cleared the great wall and disappeared altogether.

Once, she was a priestess of Lolth. Now, she was but a shadow shrouded in silence, easily blending into the surrounding darkness. Her given name did not matter. To all of the House Maeviir she was known simply as Cahlind – The Viper.

Her swift gait led her many miles away, into the deep, narrow passages of the open Underdark. Time passed quickly as hours blended into days, but she neither noticed nor cared as she increased the distance between her and the city, ever moving forward, and to the task ahead. Time and distance meant nothing to her. She had a mission to accomplish.

"_You cannot escape._"

"_Nor do I wish to. I come from the House Maeviir. I am here to discuss the alliance._"

"_Maeviir? Fool! The Valsharess will never accept your offer. Matron Maeviir betrayed her back in Menzoberanzzan long ago …and the Valsharess has neither patience nor mercy for traitors. Your House is doomed._"

"_Things have changed. House Maeviir is ruled by a new Matron now. And she wishes to side with the winners._"

"_Then what is she doing allied with the rebels?_"

"_Do not doubt my Matron's wisdom. As soon as the proper opportunity presents itself, she will deliver those rebels to you… and to the Valsharess._"

"_Hmmm. …Very well. Let us hear what you have to offer._"

* * *

_All right, I was really tired of writing "serious" fighting scenes and that's why poor Sodalis went down in such a manner. Oh, and I do admit to reading a bit too much Terry Pratchett prior to writing this, something that will be even more evident in the next chapter. ;)_

**Penname wa Silver B: **You've been editing it, so you know that the Reversed Gravity wasn't in the chapter originally. I just had a sudden strike of inspiration there… Which, I guess, goes to show what happens when you OD on coffee and cigarettes around 3AM. ;)

**Night Vendiviel: **Well, here they are in the basement level. I hope you're having fun… 'couse they surely aren't! ;) Oh, and you are right – the conversation will indeed take place in the chapter after next one (damn – you're on to me!) And trust me, it was damn hard to write it! Took me "only" about a week… and it still needs editing. But in spite of how draining the writing process gets to be sometimes, I will try to update a bit more often then once per month.

**Wolf-Kin:** Thank you for all the nice comments. As I said times and again, originality and a real shady character was what I had been aiming at ever since I started writing all this and having people notice that really gets my spirits high. :) And as far as dialogues go… Yeah, I am trying not to use in-game stuff (mostly because I think it utterly sucks) My guess – once you "get into character" it's not so hard to come up with things the said charcter might say, though putting it all to words and making the dialogue "flow" can be an ordeal sometimes.

**shadow0015: **I told this already – I came up with that Reversed Gravity stuff at the last possible moment. In fact, I was flipping the pages of Player's Handbook trying to come up with something that is NOT a mass destruction evocation spell for a change. I mean, how many fireballs and lightnings can you put in the story before it gets boring, not to mention the fact that you never know if the bugger on the receiving end of it is maybe resistant to magic (and by the time you find ou, it's usually too late) And in the end, when I saw how the spell works, I had this hilarious scene play out in my head and I just couldn't resist writing it. ;) Oh, and you're right about placing your money on Sodalis. Fortunately enough, Shi'van realized that too early in the fight so for the better part she stayed clear out of it. Oh, incidentally – What DO the drow girls like to do with Valen's tail? Never figured that part out. Anyway, I completely agree that "only us people who have come to realize our insanity are somewhat stable" and just so that you know: Shadow, you're a genius... you're the most amazing reader I have... but if you don't review my story I'll still kill _you_, and not myself. ;)


	20. Join Me In Death part three

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van.

Regarding the fight scene here: Yes, I believe it's a rather hilarious one. The reason for it is that I think in the face of such overwhelming odds everybody, Blood War veterans included, is bound to simply snap. And once the snapping occurs, there a re only two things you can do – either sit down and cry or laugh your butt off at the ridiculousness of it all (though, the said laughter is definitely very much on the histerical side). Well, that's what I had in mind here – after a whole temple of Cult Knights and a basementfull of vampires, you find yourself suddenly staring at a dracolich? My guess is that, if any of the characters were ever to tell you about this fight in their own words, this is how it would sound. Alternatively, you can just blame Terry Pratchett again, for I was still reading his book when I wrote this. ;)

**Important!** Ok, there is something I woved to say, so here goes: I recently ran into a stunning piece of work here on in Forgotten Realms section. The author in question is _euphorbic_ and the stories are: "Leopard Among the Jackals," "A Taste for Dissonance" and "Devil Takes Hindmost" Now, I'd like to point out that: One – it must be the most literate stuff that was ever my pleasure to read. Two – It must be the most original stuff that was ever my pleasure to read. Much to my eternal dismay, I found that the stories received almost no reviews, so I will kindly ask yu all to go, read and review them! Yes, I'm plugging in for another author – But I'll have you know that it was those stories (and Lord Onisyr's "The Lesser Evil") that finaly made me decide to write a sequel to Shadows, so…

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 13 **

**Join Me In Death part three – Let Sleeping Dragons Lie**

* * *

**Some time later, cavern below the temple…**

Four pair of footsteps – one fairly quiet, but implying that the person doing the walking is rather heavily built; one very soft, as if walking silently is the walker's second nature; one fluttery, almost with a feather-like quality; last one… Well, last one goes unheard really, but had it been heard, it would probably be the sound of a shadow walking… provided anyone could hear such a thing.

Then…

A clattering sound, the kind one might get if one throws a handful of bones on the hard rock.

Four pair of eyes looking about nervously. One pair squints red; the other one cold blue, but with deep infernal crimson flickers. Third pair, angelic gold, darting about as if on butter. A shudder and several feathers land on the floor. Foruth pair… just a flicker of black fire quickly slipping back, further into the darlkness.

Then…

The clattering sound grows louder…

The clattering sound grows closer…

And then…

"**ROAAAAAAAAARRRRRGHHHH!**"

A growling "_What in the Nine Hells…!_"

A stunned "_By Elisium!_"

A very sour "_Vith!_"

And a rather shadowy "_Gulp._"

As a rule, beasts don't take kindly to intrusions into their respective lairs. As a rule, the intruders into the beasts' lairs are quite aware that something nasty is bound to happen to them, just as the beasts are aware that something even nastier, like said intruders for instance, is about to happen to them.

But when the intruders happen to be a Blood War veteran, a drow weapon master, a celestial and a sneaky little shadowdancer (well, not that the last one matters much really) and the "beast" in question happens to be of a dracolich-ish kind… Both the intruders and the beast are usually into just one collective:

"**(RRRoooOOOOoo)AAAaaaaaAARRRrrrrGGHhhhh!**"

* * *

Shi'van jumped backward. 

"_Must be I'm on the right track,_" she mumbled to herself.

"_Definitely right,_" she added as she danced away from another shower of blades and flaming missiles.

Moments ago, as Vix'thra almost snapped her upper torso in two (but, unfortunately, failing in the attempt), the whining celestial screamed that there's gotta be a phylactery around here somewhere. Since she had no business whatsoever joining the fight against a dracolich, Shi'van went looking for it. After she recovered from being scared shitless that is. Hey, it's not like that a huge dragon-shaped mass of bones is something you get to see every day …let alone see it up close and in person as the aforementioned creep is trying to turn you into a crispy little stain on the floor. And so, while the other three kept the fear-spreading bone-thing occupied, mostly by their attempts to stay alive somehow, Shi'van crept away from the battle and went in search for that… well, that "I'll know it when I see it" thing the deva had yelled about. Bah, seems that the presence of that planar feather-bag did wonders for her cynism. It returned it ten folds. But then again, that was always the case, wasn't it? She'll have her claws out and teeth ready in a snap, just give her something to sink them into. And all the venom available following right behind and… OUCH!

Damn it! If she was gonna pass through this trap-littered corridor, she'd better stay focused on where she steps! Now, wait a minute. Was it just her impression or that curved part of the wall isn't all that natural after all… Now, perhaps if she just twists that loose-looking rock and gives it a little push… right here…

/SCREEECH/

Moments later, Shi'van emerged on the other end of the secret passage.

...**X**

Meanwhile, the battle in the main cavern raged on. Valen slammed his flail relentlessly into the beast, completely forgetting about anything or anyone else around him. Imloth tip-toed around, trying hard not to get hit by both Vix'thra and Valen alike. Lavoara fluttered above them, driving the creature's attention away whenever possible and waited for the right opportunity to cast a healing spell on it – a very nasty thing to be done to you …if you happen to be an undead.

Vix'thra, on his part, was not idle either. He breathed huge cones of concentrated lightning in order to bring the escaped celestial down from the bloody ceiling already, lashed out wildly with its front claws, trying to pin the elusive drow to the ground and went through a pretty wide selection of spells in between… In hopes that at least some of them would be at least noticed by that nut-case of a flail-wielding tiefling!

In spite of being kicked hard more than a few times already, Vix'thra was actually enjoying himself. He hadn't had so much fun in years!

...**X**

"_Oh, swell._"

Shi'van emerged from the secret passage only to discover that the thing she was looking for was guarded by…

"_Freakin' bone fuckin' golems! Gods damn it! I knew I should've drained that little sissy while I had the chance! At least now I'd have a golem of my own to send against these… _"

She pulled that "golem-ass-kicking" shortsword she had out of her bag and flipped it in her hand. "_Nah_." She gave it another flip and sent it in the bag again. No way she was gonna try her luck against bloody constructs again. Besides, she just got another idea.

Swiftly stepping back into the passage before either one of the two golems noticed her presence, she dipped her hand deep into the bag and begun fishing for some things. First, a small but wicked-looking crossbow came out. Then, and out of her belt this time, a bunch of strings and wires appeared. Placing it all on the floor with one hand, she resumed rummaging through her bag with another. Carefully, she pulled out a couple of flasks and laid them down gently. Then quickly, she fastened several thin wires to a crossbow bolt, leaving a couple of nooses loose.

After few seconds of furious work, Shi'van retreated further back into the passage and knelt on one knee. She took another second or two to carefully aim at the very bottom of the pedestal that held the phylactery, took a deep breath, and – fired!

**KA-BOOM!**

Well, even if two high-speed fire-bombs and an acid bomb on top don't destroy the phylactery, the wall impact surely will. Hopefully, the ceiling will hold – 'twould be quite inconvenient to have to dig through a half o' ton of rocks to get to that treasure hoard.

...**X**

A thundering explosion and a violent airburst shook the cavern and nearly swept Valen off his feet. Imloth staggered backwards and landed on his butt. Lavoera went flying straight into a stalagmite. Vix'thra lay still.

Lavoera was the first to come back to her senses. Recovering from the initial shock of the blow, she un-glued herself from the rock she was hugging and flew through the narrow passage in the back of the cave from which, apparently, the explosion came in the first place. After a long moment of complete confusion, Imloth and Valen struggled back to their feet and followed suit.

It soon turned out that wasn't such a good idea.

The dust didn't even settle down yet and an occasional flicker of flame could still be seen coming out of a ten feet deep crater where the pedestal with the phylactery on it once stood. None of that however stopped a self-satisfied shadowdancer from already being nose-deep into the treasure pile. Few moments later, her relatively good mood was spoiled by the sound of a pair of wings fluttering in. Soon after, just as that golden-haired bird-brain was about to say something (and it would, beyond any doubt, be something very smart, probably along the lines of "What happened here?" or "Did you find it?"), the sound of running footsteps came from the…

…CORRIDOR!

Ooooops! She'd completely forgotten to flag those – "**AAARGH!**" …traps.

"_Do be of some use birdie – go tell the boys to use that secret passage instead._"

...**X**

After a while, a smoldering drow came in from the passage, a smug looking tiefling behind.

"A_ll right, young lady_" Imloth said, tapping his foot "_What's the big idea of not disarming those traps?_"

Shi'van shrugged, pointing her thumb to the smoking crater behind her.

"_Been busy._"

Valen couldn't help but grin, especially because he was the one who did manage to dodge the trap in time. He patted Imloth on the (kinda dusty) shoulder and limped into the treasure room.

Lavoera, however, wasn't smiling. Instead, she frowned and replayed the events of the past minute or so in her mind.

"_Errr, Shi'van? Just when, exactly, did you blow up the phylactery?_"

A sour look crossed Imloth's face. It became even more sour when, an instant later, he heard the all too familiar sound of creaking bones in the large cave behind. Next second, a very angry dracolich popped it's head in.

"_Oh, shit. Not again..._"

...**X**

Much later, the party of four tired, bleeding companions was leaning on the walls, struggling for breath. Vix'thra lay dead – this time for good. How they managed to defeat the dracolich for the second time in a row, no one knew. And no one cared, either. Was it Lady Fate that smiled on them this day, or was it someone else, it didn't matter. It was just important that someone did.

After some time that they spent gulping the last of the healing potions and bandaging what wounds they could, Imloth suggested that someone should go and inform the people of Drearing's Deep that the undead creatures were no more. Eventually, it was agreed that Lavoara was the best choice for the task and Imloth gallantly offered to accompany her. But that would have to wait until they all got some rest first. The deva did have some healing magic at her disposal, but she had already used most of it while fighting Vix'thra. Imloth was fighting hard just to stay on his feet, and even for a Blood War survivor such as Valen, two battles in a row against a dracolich were a bit too much (with that "a bit" part being a masterful understatement, if there ever was one). Confident that there were no more enemies left, all four were soon sound asleep.

* * *

Imloth woke up and found Shi'van on top of the treasure pile again. She hadn't joined in the earlier conversation, but rather busied herself by disarming the traps on the five large treasure chests that were stashed further behind the hoard. Right now, she held her Bag of Holding open and was (literally) plowing through the pile! Imloth observed her for a while. Even though she was the least wounded among them, she was still far from being unharmed. But in spite of the wounds, she somehow seemed more alive then she ever was during these past few weeks. Imloth smiled sadly. He has seen her kind many times before – people alive only when there's danger ahead, alive only when they're facing death.. But was that really all there was to it? Or was there something much more complicated than that behind the shadowdancer's troublesome mood shifts? Imloth suspected there was, but just what exactly, he could not say. Taking care not to wake up his sleeping companions, Imloth carefully made his way through the treasure pile and sat beside Shi'van. 

Off to the side, Lavoara stirred in her sleep. Imloth noted a brief scowl pass Shi'van's face. Well, maybe he didn't know why Shi'van decided to show her bitter, cynical face again, but he was sure he could pin point exactly what triggered it.

"_The Seer's army is a rag-tag mix of outcasts and misfits. I think that Lavoera will fit in quite well_," he stated casually.

Shi'van fingered a necklace she just pulled out of one of the chests. "_Stupid goose would fit far better into some pillow._"

A chuckle escaped Imloth's throat. "_What do you have against her? …Really?_"

"_Nothing efficient… Unfortunately,_" the dancer answered sarcastically.

Imloth gave her blades a quick glance. They looked pretty efficient to him. And in truth, he wasn't sure if the troublesome wouldn't decide to use them on the deva after all. He had gotten to know Shi'van well enough to know what she was capable of.

"_Why are you so quick to judge?_ _And wrongly at that. You know she is not half as helpless as you make her to be. Besides,_" he added, "S_he's still quite young._"

"_And that justifies her?_ _Youth is no excuse for not being able to wipe your own ass without a map and three cartographers to read it to you._" Shi'van grumbled, stiffening slightly.

Imloth observed her for a moment. Her sudden stiffness didn't escape him. Nor did the way she absentmindedly patted one of her daggers. "_You hate her?_" It was a question as much as it was a statement.

Shi'van breathed in deeply, let go of the necklace and turned to face the drow fully. A dark flicker in her eye hinted at something deep and angry inside. "_I don't hate her Imloth - I despise her._"

Imloth frowned. "_Despise? And just what do you despise about her? Her asking for our help? Surely you can't hold wanting out of that cage against her._"

"_I can and I do!_" she said sharply. "_She fluttered into this mess herself, it's none of my business if she couldn't get herself out of it. Besides, she's got the attitude that drives me nuts._"

Imloth chuckled. "_Many would say that about your own attitude, you know._"

"_So they would. So let them. If people can't stand my presence, it's fine with me. Just let them stay out of my way. But at least I am not going around landing myself in shit and then expecting someone else to get me out of it._"

Imloth eyed her seriously. He was a follower of Ellistraee and the idea did offend him. "_So, if you happen upon someone in need, you'd just let them fry?_" But he was also a drow, so he could understand it too. "_And what would you do if you were in her place?_"

"_I'd die,_" Shi'van answered flatly. "_But you wouldn't catch me sinking so low as to sob and whine about it. And definitely not the way she did. I mean, hello! 'Free me!' _"she imitated the deva's voice mockingly, "_As if it is her gods-given right to be released and we're all like supposed to be honored to be given the chance to do it! Come on, damn it! Just because she happens to have some pillow-stuffing dangling from her back, she's entitled to anything she wants? Just a blink, and the world's gonna start spinning around her? Forget it!_"

"_She didn't act like that,_" Imloth argued.

"_Oh? Yeah, right. She was just sitting there like a little angel she is, blinking her big goo-goo eyes and playing damsel-in-distress in hopes someone would take pity on her. …Pity. Bah,_" the way she spoke the word made a pile of rothe dung sound better. "_Those craving pity deserve to be kicked in their pathetic asses … hard. _"

Oh? Now that was a topic that could be discussed for quite a while, but Imloth decided to let it go… for now. Before he could say anything else though, Shi'van cast a sideways glance Valen's way and added with a snort: "_And while we're at it, a kick in the ass could just as well be served to some eavesdropping tieflings._"

Valen sat up sharply. Imloth shot him a mischievous grin before turning back to Shi'van. "_Maybe so,_" he said "_But you could still give her a break._"

"_Why the hell should I?_" there was definitely anger in Shi'van's voice now "_I was never given any. But then again,_" a cynical half-smirk found it's way to her face, "_I am not a bright little angel, am I? And that's the way things go, right? Helpless cutie-pies get all the breaks they want – And the rest of the crowd can stuff it._"

"_It is not about her being a…._" Valen growled, his blood already beginning to boil.

"_It's about her being a nice, lovely girl who gets to get anything she wants just because she's cute and shy!_" snapped Shi'van. "_The fact that she is one completely incompetent creature who doesn't even know where she's going or what the fuck she's doing, aside from landing herself in shit, doesn't really matter to either one of you, does it!_"

Before soon-to-be-steaming-again tiefling could say something that was bound to initiate another fight between him and Shi'van, Imloth cut in, cocking his head curiously.

"_So is it about her being helpless or about her being pretty?_"

"_It's about her being both! …And either way, the stupid bitch got exactly what she deserved!_"

Before either Imloth or Valen could say something, Shi'van's eyes suddenly turned into two bladed slits. Imloth turned around and saw Lavoera, by that point fully awakened by Shi'van's yelling, approaching them.

Valen's eyes darted from one woman to another. The expression on Lavoera's face implied that she wasn't sure if she was more hurt or angered by all the things she just heard being said about her. The expression on Shi'van's face was one of murder.

"_Maybe I'm just a stupid tiefling,_" Valen growled, rising to his feet and placing himself between the deva and the shadowdancer, "_but I can never be sure of what you'll decide to do next. So,_" he went on, an edge in his voice even sharper, "_What will you do? Will you maybe decide to kill a celestial solely because she annoys you?_"A vivid memory of a past event came into his mind. "_The way you did with that Talona priest back in Shaori's Fell?_ _And who will meet their death from the shadows next?_"he added, "_And when? …I won't even ask about why and how._"

Imloth looked at the tiefling sharply, but realized that the same thought passed through his own mind barely moments ago. Given Shi'van's mental state, which was always problematic, his friend's question was more then sound, so he decided to bak him up.

"_With the last of the Valsharess' allies apparently defeated and the final battle approaching fast, we do need to know just what to expect from you._"

Shi'van glared hard at both of them. Their questions were sound. And besides, she couldn't deny that she was sorely tempted to do exactly what Valen implied… But that wouldn't be a tactical thing to do, would it now? She snickered slightly as the thought came to her, realizing her mind was suddenly perfectly clear, focused, and, above all, purely pragmatical. It never fails, does it? As soon as her back gets pressed against the wall by her own emotions, she instantly retreats to cold calculation… And that was but a small, treacherous step away from the ever-beckoning void - the fact that stifled her snicker instantly.

"_No. I don't plan to kill her,_" she said flatly, not even looking at the deva in question."_If I went around offing everybody I find annoying, this world would be a much quieter place by now… And I would be one very busy person. So no. No pillow stuffing for me this time. Not that I wouldn't enjoy plucking her though,_" she added, shooting one venomous glance Lavoera's way. Without giving anyone a chance to respond, she continued. "_And that loony priest got in my way. Thus, he's dead._"

"_Even though you knew he was not really evil,_" Valen seethed.

"_So?_" the dancer shrugged, "_Good, evil… Makes no difference to me. And you all know it. Between taking his stupid challenge and a short-cut to the antidote…_" she gave it another shrug, "_I leave morality to those who believe it actually exists,_" she finished with sneer.

Valen clenched his teeth. Behind him, Lavoera almost choked at hearing such a blatant statement of what she considered to be pure evil.

Imloth leaned back on one of the chests and kept silent. He often heard Valen foam about how impossible it is to talk with Shi'van. This, he realized, was one of the rare chances to actually witness one such banter first-hand and see just how impossible it really was.

"_And that answers your other questions too,_" Shi'van went on, addressing Imloth as well. "_Whoever gets in my way will meet death. And whoever doesn't – won't. So basically, you just have to watch your step._"

"_Gladly!_" Valen shot back. His gaze was so intense it could melt the rock. It could make the fire freeze. "_But just what exactly will you decide to consider 'stepping in your way' is still beyond me. Hells, I can't even figure out where your 'way' lies, let alone how to avoid stepping in it!_"

Shi'van looked at him hard. She didn't like where this was going. "_And you're telling me you'd actually bother to do so?_"

"_Yes, damn it! I would! _" the tiefling shouted.

Whatever Shi'van's answer was, Imloth didn't quite catch it, (though he did hear something along the lines of "_I'll have Karandras mark it out for you, so you'll know when you misstepped…_") for he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder.

"_I… I'll go to… see to the villagers now,_" Lavoera said quietly.

Remembering his offer to accompany her, Imloth glanced at the raging duo and decided that it would be better if he forwent that promise after all.

"_I better stay here, lady,_" he murmured to the deva, "_In case my companions decide to revert to more…_" he patted one of his blades, "_…solid arguments._"

Lavoera shot the aforementioned companions a brief, half-scared glance, nodded, and quickly headed into the passage leading out of the treasure cavern, eager to get as far away from the atrocious shadowdancer as possible.

* * *

Rested though she was, Lavoera still wasn't up to flying, so she made her way through the secret passage instead. Soon after, she emerged from Vix'thra's lair all together and proceeded up to the basement level of the temple. Once there, she picked up her pace, wanting to see as little of it as possible, especially that one spot where she had been held prisoner. Though the dracolich and its vampires were defeated, and the dark aura of the entire place had already begun to fade somewhat, she could still feel it keenly and she was in a hurry to get out of the temple as fast as her legs could carry her. 

While she navigated the narrow corridors, her mind raced to catch up with all the things that had happened to her since she first arrived on this Prime. She was sent here by her peers to find… errr, someone and deliver a… Warning of some sorts? She couldn't really remember what it was all about. Not that it mattered. Such things had a way of sorting themselves out on their own anyway. Serendipity, right? And anyway, she was free now, and she had been asked to aid some rebels here, so it might as well be that that was what Fate had in mind for her all along. Though, while Fate liked to play some curious tricks sometimes, she would never have guessed that she would be rescued by a… Tiefling!

And not just any kind of tiefling. A Tiefling with a capital T! She wasn't sure if the mortals could even feel such things, but she, a deva, surely could. This tiefling was the child of a cambion - a demon with mortal blood, but a real demon nevertheless. Those sired by a cambion were the most powerful of all the tainted, just one step removed from the actual fiends… They were fierce… And evil. After all, what else could a demon child possibly be? But this one was different. She couldn't detect anything evil about him, neither in his aura nor in his behaviour, and that honestly puzzled her. It also worried her, for who was to know when might the demon in him awaken? When – not "if" – when would his suppressed nature burst? And what havoc will he wreak then? And then, there was this thing she overheard the drow saying about him - The veteran of Blood War! She heard there were such creatures, the veterans, but those were always more myths then actual people. No one survived the Blood War for long, no one save for the true fiends. And yet, somehow, this one had. And not just that. Not only had he survived - He had left! And now, he was here, on the Prime, helping those rebels and putting all of his power and battle prowess at their disposal… and for a noble cause. It was simply too weird, too improbable and out of place for the young deva to understand.

Still, the tiefling, much like his drow companion, seemed kind… Caring even, especially compared to that dark, shadow-dancing creature that accompanied them. But then again, compared to her, who wouldn't seem kind and caring? Lavoera stirred. That woman was indeed darkness incarnate… And blessed by an even darker Power. She had seen its aura around her clearly. And that artifact she carried? The one that originated from the shadow plane? It had the mark of the Masked God imprinted all over it. And Lavoera didn't like it one single bit.

* * *

**"**_Squeeze out few drops of poison in rhyme  
Don't be stingy, much will remain  
In veins, below the tongue and on lips  
Enough drops to crawl under your skin  
In a green line with melodious hiss_

_String the tendons of pain through the rhyme  
Despise yourself, grind your teeth  
Behind the eyelids behold ghostly husk  
Woven of shame and miserable weakness  
Floating through bones to meet with your dusk_

_Tie up, bridle your rage through the rhyme  
Bind your claws, don't growl now  
Let the lava boil deep inside  
On the surface, there is the hardened magma  
Ashes remain, smoke is unseen, and the way out much too high_

_Squeeze out the poison and lava in rhyme  
Cover them with spider silk  
And swallow through mouth dried by flames  
Thick and bitter liquid on palate  
Slides down the throat and through your blood …_  
… _until only a shiver remains**"**_

**_"Nameless" _**_Shi'van Darkblade_

* * *

_OK, I'll have you know that this and the following chapter were extremely difficult to write! It took more then two weeks to get them done and I'm still not quite satisfied with the results. Now, I know I'm always pleading (threatening, whatever…) for reviews, but this time, it's really important – I put so much effort and work into these dialogues and I really, really need to know how do they sound!_

_And as far as the poem goes, concider it a small prelude to a banter coming up in the next chapter. ;)_

**Penname wa Silver B:** He-heh, mysterious drow chatting… But who are they? You'll see… Glad you liked that Sodalis scene… but somehow, I knew you would. ;)

**Night Vendiviel:** Why does Shi'van obey Imloth? Hmmmm… I don't think she knows herself. ;) I think it'll become a bit clearer later on. Oh, and just be grateful I didn't really kill Valen there – in the first draft, that was precicely what happened, but then I realized I need him alive… for a while longer, at least. (wicked grin) And Enserrick? There is a reason why he ain't talking, but there'll be more about it some time later.

**Wolf-Kin:** Yeah, I did try to make it funny (oh, and congratulations on passing that exam, btw.) Anyway, I was always freaked out by that Sodalis monologue and frustrated at having to listen to it all… Hells, who in the world would wait for the speech to end before attacking? And it wasn't like he had anything smart to say anyway. ;) Ulterior motives? Certainly! But I thought it was clear by now – Tarnash needs the Seer and her crowd in order to lead his own away and start a Vhaeraun settlement. But, they hold him responsible for Imloth's death, so they're not too keen on helping him. But, if Imloth's alive… moreover, if it's Tarnash's doing… See what I mean? Oh, and "shadowy" words? Well, that undead bugger was "a shadowmaster," whatever that may be, but I figure it's some sort of an undead assassin or something. Besides, the whole fic is called The Clash of Shadows, ain't it? ;)

**shadow0015:** How many fireballs is too many? Well, if you're on the receiving end, then - just one. ;) Yup, I guess little feathery whiner is still in training, though for what, I've no clue. Proffesional whiner, maybe? ;) Sooo… "time-stopping" scene did hit the mark? (is happy) Nope, no garlic around… and I had to save the acid for Vix'thra. "a tempermental boulder and callous hard place" – Im love the sound of it. Think I'll steal it. Imloth… well, he didn't really piss anyone off… it's a shitty job… but somebody's gotta do it. And NWN got rated teen precicely because Nat _didn't_ say what drow girls like doing with Val's tail. A shame… I was really curious. ;) Anyway, you got away with not getting killed because you're my favorite reader and a regular reviewer – and you'll stay alive as long as you keep behaving. ;)


	21. Join Me In Death part four

**Disclaimer:** Of course none of this belongs to me. All characters/places etc. belong to their creators. The only one who is mine is Shi'van.

Well now, this one was a real bitch to get done! But I finaly made it, so here it is. I was really tired of writing standard dialogues and, to be perfectly honest, I simply souldn't do it and still say all the things I wanted said, so I experimented a bit. And now I'm really, really curious what you people think about it, so be nice and do review, even if all you have top say is: "It sucks!"

Another thing: From the next chapter on, I'm taking over completely. That means, my own story line and my own version of how it all ended. Also, I warn all of you with weak stomachs that I'll be finaly justifying the M rating, so you can expect blod, gore, entrails, smut and all-out nervous breakdowns from now on… ;)

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 13 **

**Join Me In Death part four – ****One Step Closer - One Step Too Close**

"**…I never needed foes, forever feeling low  
'Cause they break me down, cannot fake this frown  
I never took offence, I never swore in advance  
But I'll break you down with my poison mouth again…**"  
"_This Cold Life,_" _Paradise Lost_

_

* * *

_

While the deva walked through the temple, lost in thoughts about her new allies, the treasure cavern sounded almost as if Vix'thra was still alive.

Imloth was still leaned comfortably against the treasure chest and listened to the ongoing clash with interest… Though, he did catch himself glancing at Vix'thra's corpse a couple of times, wondering if the two would actually manage to wake the damned thing up with their yelling.

So far, the two had …errr, "discussed," the topic of helplessness and rescuing Lavoera some more:

"_Yeah, well, I suppose men are far more likely to forgive it… especially to women. After all, guys like to play knights in shiny armors for the poor, helpless girls who will then adore them, and only them._"

"_The world is full of empty-headed little cuties just waiting for some sucker to come along and do their bidding. So, even the biggest wimp can find himself someone even weaker to play hero for. Bottom line - men like to be protective and play tough and because of that, most women simply take on the role of the weak, helpless things in need of protection. And that makes both men and women weak and stupid. As if there isn't enough weakness made by many other means already. Well, I respect strength and independence and I think weaklings should be eradicated… Or, at least, put somewhere where I won't run into them._" – being some of Shi'van's thoughts on the matter, which provoked some rather unintelligible growls on Valen's part.

And then they briefly touched the subject of morality:

"_Your lack of any principles whatsoever pisses me off!_" being Valen's opening line, quickly countered by "_I do things as I see fit…_" or something along those lines.

"_You have no forgiveness, even less remorse…_"Valen accused… And got rewarded with one plain, flat "_No_" for his efforts. After several more attempts to make his point it all finally erupted into:

"_You mock every last thing I believe in!_" which eventually led to:

"_You know what your problem is? You just can't take it when somebody doesn't share your opinion!_ …_If you hurt me, I'll hurt you back. If you torture me, I'll make you suffer twice as worse. However you wrong me, I'll pay you back in kind…_" and similar outbursts that, while there may have been some actually sound points in them, only served to fuel Valen's anger even further, especially one furious "_Just what were you hoping to see, huh? Me, looking at the Seer and falling to my knees, recognizing 'the error of my ways' and curling up at her side like you and Nathyrra did? Another 'lost child finally finding her way home'? Well, forget it!_" part. There was also one quite to the point "_What do you care about what I think?_" flying Valen's way, which could've actually led the entire rant down some more productive road but sadly, didn't.

"_It's not what you think, it's what you do!_"

"_Like, living according to what I believe in? And how different is that from what you do?_"

"_Not much, but…_" with that fateful "but" leading the whole thing away from the current topic and to some completely new steam-snorting, poison-spiting and utterly pointless tirade that Imloth gave up listening to after a while. And anyway, he had heard more then enough to draw some conclusions out of it.

First, he now had a much better understanding of why Valen considered talking to Shi'van an impossible task. Put simply – They were like two wild dogs, ruffling their fur and barking at each other, and she barked better! Much better. And, unlike the tiefling, for all her foaming, she almost always stayed alert and attentive enough to keep the leading position and thus, drive the conversation in whichever direction suited her. Normally, Imloth knew, Valen would never allow himself to be led around like that – the tiefling was, after all, a commander, and the experience at handling the volatile troops, abyssal and drow alike, surely didn't leave him wanting when it came to handling troublesome people. But Shi'van simply had the knack for driving him nuts. And (another thing Imloth found to be particularly interesting) she was doing it on purpose. Not that she was saying things just to piss Valen off – it was obvious she meant every last word she said – but she knew exactly what to say and when to say it in order to bring out whatever reaction she wanted from the tiefling. Imloth chuckled under his breath. That kid really knew how to bark and bite.

Another thing he noted was that she always seemed to pointedly keep the tiefling on the very edge and then, just as he was about to lash out, she would put in some remark that caught Valen completely off guard… In other words, she was playing with fire here, for what else can you call infuriating a weapon master of Valen's capacity and temper? Not that she didn't have more than enough experience at it by now… But judging from her own honest anger or an occasional pained expression in her eyes, she wasn't doing it just for kicks. Was that, Imloth mused, yet another way for her to feel alive? The same way she felt alive only when facing death, as he realized earlier? He was pretty sure that that was the case. Also, he was sure that Valen noted it too, it was just that his friend was too busy shouting right now to really pay attention to it. A pity really, for it would've given him a rather valuable clue to unveiling the enigma that was Shi'van and thus, bring him closer to sorting out his own feelings about her. Imloth made a mental note of pointing that out to Valen later and then continued following his own thoughts.

What came to him next was that, no matter how much those two were at odds, in some weird, and probably slightly masochistic, way they were both enjoying it. On reflection, it was pretty much like what Imloth himself had felt when he fought Tarnash in that alley. True, he and Tarnash were at odds in a different way then Valen and Shi'van were, but similarities did exist: Imloth simply couldn't deny that he actually welcomed that fight. It was, after all, long overdue and, in the end, he couldn't deny he enjoyed it. Well, not the conclusion of it, that was for sure, but the conflict itself most certainly yes.

Before he could pursue those particular thoughts any further however, his attention was drawn to the ongoing verbal sparring by the mention of the very same event he had just been replaying in his mind. So, it would appear that they finally reached the subject that was the very catalyst for their renewed hostility.

"…_like you didwith Tarnash and Imloth!_" Valen was shouting.

Shi'van glared at him. "_Spare me your double standards, please. If it was anyone else instead of Imloth, anyone at all, none of you would ever make such a fuss about it. You'd all play good soldiers, accept that sacrifices have to be made and move on,_" she said bluntly.

Valen stared at her for a moment, and then lowered his head, looking away. No matter how much he wanted to deny what she just said, he knew she was right. How many times did he find himself thinking that same thing? How many times did he wish that somebody else was lying in that death bed? A painful lump found it's way up his throat.

Imloth saw the frustration and the deep, brooding pain in his friend's eyes clearly as Valen turned to face him. Well, the truth was he wasn't overly joyful about that whole business himself, but Shi'van made a very valid point there. Besides, this was a perfect opportunity to put his friend's mind at ease about the whole thing once and for all, and Imloth wasn't about to let it slip unused.

"_Well,_" he said with a smile, "_I'd be quite hurt and downright insulted if you didn't fuss about it. But,_" he added in a more serious tone, "_she is right. Only, that doesn't automatically make you wrong. It's only natural you all acted the way you did, and felt the way you felt about it,_" he finished with a shrug, drawing one pretty venomous glance from Shi'van in the process. Apparently, his comment just ruined whatever purpose she wanted her latest words to serve. Well, whatever she had in mind, Imloth was glad to spoil it for her. It simply hurt Valen too much for him to allow it.

"_And I told you times and again, Valen, that you can't hold what she did against her. It served the purpose and,_" he turned to Shi'van, "_even I have to give it to you - It was a damn good plan on your part. You really do have a mind of a drow,_" he went on, his every word adding another degree of frost in Shi'van's already chilling gaze, "_Must be something you picked up from your father._"

That final statement hit the mark fully. Imloth silently congratulated himself. He had obviously hurt her, and more then he intended to, but now it was Shi'van who was forced into the defensive. And that gave Valen a fresh headstart. Also, Imloth had noticed long ago how Shi'van always avoided talking about herself. At one point, he wondered if she was perhaps ashamed of her past and that that was the reason she avoided talking about it, but the thought left him as soon as it came. Shi'van wasn't ashamed of her past. Running from it – yes, but ashamed of it – no. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that Shi'van wasn't ashamed of anything. Now, she couldn't be blamed for wanting to keep her matters private, but the obviously heavy emotional baggage she carried around had big impacts on all the affairs concerning the Valsharess and Lith My'athar rebels, and especially on her relationship with Valen. And so, Imloth gave his friend a good opening line and let the tiefling handle it from there on.

But, what he just did also made Shi'van turn her full assortment of venom his way, so Imloth decided that being somewhere else right now was a damn good idea.

Keeping his face calm, he casually turned his back to both of them. "_Now, if you two will excuse me, I have a call of nature to answer. And try not to kill each other while I'm away,_" he added, and then disappeared into the secret passage all together.

After a while, voices from the treasure cavern could be heard again, though, Imloth noted with some satisfaction, they were more quiet and a tad bit calmer this time. And while he couldn't make out the entire conversation, some words did reach his ears. Apparently, Valen took the clue and touched the shadows-of-the-past topic at last.

"_We are all shaped by our past._" he was saying, "_You can't deny that. True, there are many crossroads and turning points where each one of us decides which road to follow next, but some things are simply …inevitable,_" an unmistakable note of pain rang out in his voice.

"_Maybe. But even in the face of the inevitable, you still have a choice – You are the one who gets to choose how to take whatever's flying your way, …You are the one who chooses how to deal with it. And that__is what really shapes you, not the things that are being done to you._" Shi'van came a bit later.

"_But it is then the choices we make that speak of who we truly are …And in the light of that, we are again back to the past. Or, more pointedly, to the moments in which the choices were made,_" Valen countered.

Imloth grinned. Good. Seemed like they were finally getting somewhere after all.

For quite some time, the voices were too hushed for Imloth to hear what went on, but soon enough(?) the argument gained momentum and they got louder again.

"_Why do you so stubbornly refuse to talk about yourself?_"

Imloth supposed thousands of answers could be given to that question. None of them were likely to be pleasant.

There was a brief pause, and then: "_Many, you included, use their pathetic 'sad life stories' to justify themselves and their actions., to cower behind them and to gain sympathy and other such useless crap._ _I won't have my past serve me that way._"

"_I don't hide behind my past!_" Valen was losing control again.

"_Oh yeah! Well…_"

The drow winced. What followed was one very heated, long-winded tantrum from Shi'van that had to do with Blood Wars, losing oneself, Grimash't, a certain gith'zerai female that the aforementioned balor killed… In short, things that Valen seldom, if ever, spoke of to anyone. Shi'van sure kicked low sometimes.

Throughout all that, several stunned "_Where in the Nine Hells did you…?_" and angry "_I never told you about…!_" could be heard. Well, there was only one way Shi'van could've learned all those things about the tiefling's past…

"_I'm going to kill that loud-mouthed kobold!_" Valen growled.

"_That would be a rather interesting way of committing suicide,_" Shi'van's voice turned particularly icy.

Imloth ground his teeth, silently swearing to himself that, should the two start another fight, he would personally kill the one who got out of it alive.

Much to the drow's relief, it didn't come to that. In an outstanding feat of self-control, Valen managed to stay composed enough not to draw his weapon. Instead, he launched himself in a heated tantrum about invasion and rather blatant disrespect of his own privacy and demanded to know just why in the Nine Hells shouldn't he smack Deekin half way across the Underdark for it. Whereupon Shi'van replied because: one, she'd kill him if he even thought about it, let alone said it again and two, because Deekin hadn't told her anything. But, as she casually explained, she had no problem with going through the kobold's backpack on her own and reading whatever caught her fancy. The whole thing eventually led to some more shouting and somehow a topic of a certain book written by a particular kobold came up.

Ever since Shi'van first shoved Deekin's book into Valen's face, the said book became, much to Deekin's delight, something of a public property in Lith My'athar. Valen read it first. Then the Seer managed to take a sneak peek before Imloth snatched it. Then Nathyrra went through it (and that meant Rizolvir also had) and after that, the book just kept changing hands. As a result, the book was now so worn that it had to be glued back together several times already and many of the drow that could read surface common found themselves speaking very weird for a few hours after finishing it. It wasn't that most of them were really that interested in literary exploits of a kobold, but being under constant pressure of the oncoming attack made any sort of past-time that allowed them to forget about it for a while a very welcome one.

One curious thing about it though was the fact that, while the whole thing was indeed based on the shadowdancer's exploits, Shi'van herself never appeared in it. Instead, she was replaced by a completely different character, both in temperament and moral standings alike - Shi'van's complete opposite. True to the heart, no rogue would really appreciate being advertised so openly throughout the Realms and then, as Imloth and a few others found out, there was also a matter of several very high bounties placed on the shadowdancer's head throughout Faerun, though for what crimes nobody knew.

Be that as it may, Valen had used the opportunity to point out that, as far as Deekin's scribbles went, Shi'van had a big advantage over him, while he was still "_Being made a mushroom,_" which was to say, "_Kept in the dark and fed with shit!_" as the tiefling so eloquently put it.

For a while longer, Valen kept trying, in every last way he could think of, to pry just who and what she truly was out of the shadowdancer. Eventually, he succeeded. But the answer he got wasn't really what he had been hoping for.

"_A bitch,_" Shi'van had summed herself up in one word. "_But that's not really a revelation, is it?_"

It was around then when imloth decided that he had had just about enough of this and headed back to the treasure cavern. Valen still wasn't giving up, and Imloth re-appeared just in time for the grand finale:

"_Why?_" Shi'van asked the tiefling flatly. "_Why do you want to know? So that you might find your peace or something?_" Bulls eye. Valen swallowed hard. "_And just what do you hope is gonna happen? That you'll get to hear some shitty story about my life and then everything's gonna fall into place? That once you coax it out of me you'll get to say to yourself something like 'Well poor girl's had it hard, it's not her fault she's being so difficult' and other such nonsense. Or, alternatively, you might find yourself disgusted and thinking 'That damn, bloody bitch did all that? Fuck it all, she deserves to die, I just wish I did her in sooner.' Well you can forget it, Valen! It's not gonna happen! My past did not make me what I am - I did! There are countless ways my past could've shaped me, but this is the way I chose… The way I made it be. And you've seen more then enough to have an opinion by now. You can like me, you can hate me, you can think whatever you want about me… But you'll have to decide it yourself._ _If you found something likable in me by now – fine. Knock yourself out liking me! But if you're gonna hate me, then hate me properly! Not for the things I've done in my life, but for the things I've done to you!_"

And with those final words, Shi'van turned away from Valen, marched into the passage, and would've likely passed straight through Imloth on her way out if the drow, recalling her earlier remark concerning people standing in her path, hadn't wisely stepped aside. It didn't take intelligence above that of a rothe to see that dancer was completely out of sorts. Her normally elegant gait was stiff, her movements jerky and her whole body shaking. Of course, most of that was the result of all the wounds she had sustained during these last few frantic days. But a better part of it came from the wounds within. Her eyes were twin dark fires. And behind those fires, there was the void.

Valen stared at the departing shadowdancer's back, biting his lower lip and feeling like he'd just been hit by his own flail.

Imloth watched his friend slump down hard on one of the chests. The tiefling looked broken. Now, as the heat of the argument was gradually wearing off, bleakness slowly settled back into his heart. And it gnawed at him. Relentlessly. Too many things have happened… And too damn fast… "_Too damn painfull, _" he whispered and closed his eyes. Why, he wondered. How did it come to this? Why did he feel so hurt? …Why did he even care?

In his chest, a whirlwind raged - one, perhaps, to match the one he had all those years ago, back in the Abyss. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it was really nothing like that, that it was just the heat of the moment getting to him, but he felt it just as keenly never the less. Both rage and compassion tugged at his heart, understanding and disgust, coldness and closeness …Reflections in the mirror …Two sides of the coin. And the coin was spinning inside him, and he still had no idea on which side would it land.

"_Collateral damage of each others haunts,_" Imloth thought with a sigh as he moved closer to Valen and sat down beside him.

"_So, reached any epiphanies?_"

"_No,_" Valen mumbled and cast a brief glance towards the passage, "_But I did score a nervous breakdown or two._"

"_Had this gone on much longer, it would've been three,_" the drow stated.

There was no reply.

"_Well,_" Imloth continued, "_Did all this ranting and raving serve any purpose at all then?_"

"_I don't know, Imloth,_" Valen said sourly, "_Ask me tomorrow._"

"_I won't have to. You'll do it yourself._"

Valen stared at the wall for a while before nodding slowly. "_Yes,_" he whispered, "_I know._"

Imloth clasped his shoulder gently. "_Come now, abbil. You may not have found your answers yet, but you did get one step closer to finding them. Next time you to talk…_"

"_Next time?_" Valen interrupted.

"_Yes. Next time. You both spat every last ounce of venom you had left at each other. You fired all the bolts and launched all the daggers you could. So there can be no more fighting now. Not any more._" Imloth made a pause to allow his words to settle in fully. "_And you can no longer use your words as weapons or shields either. You both gave one another more then enough to chew on, and it was some pretty bitter and hard-to-swallow stuff too. But there's no going back now. You'll have to digest it, no matter how much your stomachs revolt. And then,_" he concluded, "_you can only talk. For real. And that, my friend, is what these two hours of yelling yielded. Another chance. To sort it out once and for all… One step closer._"

Valen rose to his feet. "_One step closer, you say. I just hope it won't turn out to be one step closer to the edge,_" he muttered and headed for the exit.

Sighing deeply, Imloth followed him out.

* * *

_Well, I told you I'm setting everybody up for some nervous breakdowns, didn't I? ;) So… What do you think, people?_

**Penname wa Silver B:** Yeah, the trap scene was always my favorite also. And Shi'van is one greedy creature… actually, it's her greediness that got her into this whole mess in the first place… But maybe there'll be more elaboration of that in the future.

**shadow0015:** Nope, I'm never underestimating the power of sneakiness! Never! I'm just saying that being sneaky doesn't really help you much when you face a dracolich. I mean, it's just a bunch of bones really, can't backstab it or anything… And I think I already told you, a dracolich and a Pale Master sound like a beginning of a beautiful friendship to me. (grin) Wonder what Jude has to say about it. Hey, you really think "Nameless" is worthy of a bard? (blushes) Thanks:)

**R. Madillo:** Yup, Shi'van's not really a usual cutter, is she now? ;) And I'm glad you think she's well thought out, because she really is – took me ages to create her background, but once that was done… Well, from that point on it wasn't so hard to figure out her reactions to things around her, however unpredictable they might be. ;)

**zazei: **Every review is appreciuated you know, and I'm always trilled to see yet another new name in the reviews. ;) One thing – while Lavoera is rather annoying and all, don't forget that she, of all the people around, is the only other planar and young though she is, she still knows more about tieflings then anyone involved. My point, is she looking down at Valen, or does she maybe have a point?

**euphorbic: **My writing has improved? Coming from you, it's truly a big compliment. (blush) Told you already I'm lousy with imagery… I will try hsarder though – there's still plenty more to go. ;)


	22. Spying, Scheming, Playing, Dreaming

**Disclaimer:** All the characters, places and events belong to their creators. Shi'van's mine! And so are the original parts of this story! And if someone wants to sue me for the copyrights, I'll have them know I'm broke, so they won't make any money out of it… at least, no more then I'm making out of this. ;)

**The Author feels a need to blab:**

**-** First, I'll have you all know that this is the first new chapter I wrote. What you've been reading so far has been written about a year ago (give or take few months) and I doubt I'd ever get around to writing more if you people haven't shown interest in the story. So thanks!

**- **Anyway, I've been thinking of inserting this particular bit in between Join Me In Death 3 and 4, but decided against breaking the flow of Drearing Deep events. However, I must now go back in time and explain what went on during that week (or two) while the trio was away. Things are happening on several different fronts at once, and it's growing increasingly hard to keep track of it all, so please bear with me. Some new players are introduced in this chapter. To those of you who don't know Bregan D'Aerthe, hopefully you'll get the idea of it while reading this. To those of you who do know about them, do tell me if I got Kimmuriel right. ;)

**-** Lastly, some explanations: 1) I was never sure what's the difference between a "psion" "psionic" "psionicst" and so on, so sometimes I wrote it one way, sometimes another; 2) '_haszak' _means_ 'Illithid' _in drowish_, 'haszakkin' _is plural 3) '_tu'rilthiir_' means 'half-elf'; 4) '_Darkmask_' is a specialty priest of Vhaeraun and '_Dark Daggers_' are one of Vhaerunite fractions – all the information was found on 'The Chosen of Vhaeraun' site; 5) '_Arach-Tinilith_' is a school for priestesses of Lolth and "_exhibits_" are the tortured victims displayed in there, both to show what happens to those who anger Lolth and her clergy and to show the torturous skills of a particular priestess; 6) In—game, Nathyrra says that the Valsharess is the matron of House Kilath, but later on the Valsharess herself says her surname is Bar'ritar, so I decided to use the later.

**-** Yeah, I slipped in another bit of Shi'van's past in here, and it's the biggest part yet revealed. ;) And the present tense in the last parts of the chapter is intentional!

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 14 **

**Spying, Scheming, Playing, Dreaming…**

* * *

**Deep in the western caverns…**

Nathyrra motioned for her scouts to fall back. She could still afford to cut at the flanks of the opposing army from time to time, but not now… And not with this group that now silently crept below the perch she and her scouts were hidden in. She couldn't risk being seen, let alone engage in another fight. The group ahead of them was too big. The army of the Valsharess had advanced steadily for the past week or so, and now, not only the scouting parties but the core of her troops moved into the western caverns as well. The time for skirmishes was over.

Another scouting party, a larger one, had already left for Lith My'athar guiding a fair number of slaves to safety. She could only hope that that group wouldn't run into enemies. The only reason she still lingered here was to ensure that that doesn't happen. After that, there will be no more scouting. By the orders of the Seer, the enemies' movements will be monitored by scrying only. Nathyrra wasn't sure if she completely agreed with such a decision though – most valuable information could only be gathered by being on the spot, watching and listening to things as they happened. Still, the forefront of enemy ranks were now but five days away from the city, the rest of the army but a few days behind. That gave the rebels more or less a week for final preparations, and Nathyrra was needed back in the city along with every other able member of her scouts. They could afford no loses now, and closer the enemy ranks got, more alert their own scouts would become, thus increasing the chances of encounters the rebels could ill afford.

"_Lose a little, gain a little,_" muttered Nathyrra under her breath, deciding that, in the end, the Seer's decision was wise after all.

Below her, the mixed enemy group of drow soldiers and duergar mercenaries came to a halt. Obviously, they were about to set camp. Nathyrra smirked. Judging by the not-so-careful way they went about it, they were positively growing too confident. Perhaps she could chance another skirmish after all. But not just yet. A bulk of the information she gathered about the enemy movements came from listening in, and camping troops, especially after a full days march, were always grumpy enough to fuss and moan about why they weren't with some other group that went someplace else, what did the Valsharess have in plan for them next, how come those rebels were so strong they had to drag so many troops to defeat them and so on. Still smirking, Nathyrra found a more comfortable position and pricked her ears.

What she heard during the next couple of hours only confirmed the information she already had. Apparently, while the bulk of the Valsharess' army marched towards Lith My'athar, the rest of it was already way ahead, clearing the path towards the surface. Now that the Undermountain was once again Halaster's to rule, that particular way was closed. But there were others. Like Skullport for instance. Nathyrra grinned. If Tarnash indeed planned to lead the remains of the house Maeviir there, he'd be in for quite a surprise. "_Or not_," the thought came to her. According to what she just heard, the major part of the troops that were headed there consisted of Bregan D'Aerthe, a well-known and well-feared mercenary group from Menzoberanzzan. When the Valsharess first rose to power, she enlisted the aid of the mercenary band right away. Well, more like forced them into her service and no sooner than she had, she placed a fair number of her own troops, some higher-ranking Red Sisters included, into their ranks as lieutenants and commanders. Which was wise. The mercenary band was ever crafty and after profit above all else but, more importantly, it was almost exclusively male. In Valsharess' eyes, they were inferior and thus needed a strong female hand to bring them in line. A risky practice, considering the fact that the dangerous mercenary band prided itself for it's independence. But, much to her credit, the Valsharess forced her will upon them anyway. And that, Nathyrra mused, might well turn out to be a big mistake in the end, especially when the band reached Skullport where, she had no doubts about it, they had allies of their own. It was a well-known fact that no allies of the Valsharess outlived their usefulness, and once she reaches the surface, the mercenary band would surely become expendable. It was something that the current leader of Bregan D'Aerthe, a dangerous and powerful male psionic, was keenly aware of and, Nathyrra knew, couldn't possibly be happy about. So, she mused, even if Lith My'athar fell (a very real possibility that instantly sent shivers down her spine), perhaps not all would be lost. Or at least, she hoped it wouldn't be.

As the conversation below her died out, she did another quick count of the enemy group and decided against attacking them after all. Not only that they were too many, but also a rising pressure behind her eyes indicated that yet another headache was on its way. She had been having a lot of those as of late and she didn't want another migraine to catch up with her in the middle of combat.

She used to have such headaches a lot when she was younger – a side effect of learning the arts of magic. Not all wizards had them, but most did, at least in the beginning. They would go away in time, and rarely return. Nathyrra never thought she'd have them again. But here they were, bad as ever and getting worse. Or, at least, more frequent. Must be all the pressure catching up with her at last.

Rubbing her temples, she crept back to her party.

"_There is nothing new to learn here,_" her hands flashed, "_Let us go back. The Seer awaits our report._"

**...X**

Nathyrra and her scouts crept away in absolute silence. For a while, all was still. And then, several dark, silent shapes slid out of the shadows and set themselves into motion, swiftly following the fast-cooling trail of Nathyrra's party.

Seldom heard, rarely seen, Bregan D'Aerthe was much closer then Nathyrra thought.

* * *

Kimmuriel's eyes narrowed in concentration as his mind bore deeply into the thoughts of a barely conscious Red Sister. Gagged and beaten, the shivering female still struggled in vain against her bonds. "_The Valsharess shall have your miserable head for this treachery, male!_" her thoughts screamed at him, "_She'll flay the skin and flesh from your bones… From your still-living body!_" Smirking, Kimmuriel relayed the female's futile threat to his companions, drawing amused chuckles. But his smirk didn't last long. The female's threat may have been futile, but it wasn't an empty one. There was no doubt in his mind that, should Sinvyl Bar'ritar (he simply couldn't get himself to call the insufferable female "The Valsharess") indeed learn of this, she would do exactly what the Red Sister implied… if not something even worse. Dismissing the disturbing concept of being flayed alive from his mind, the psionic turned his attention back to the female in front of him. 

"_You will… AAARGH!_" the female tried to launch another mental threat his way, but Kimmuriel's powerful mind cut it off none-too-gently and immediately proceeded tearing at her feelings and thoughts alike - the mental equivalent of hitting someone on the head, then plunging a spear deep into the stomach and finally yanking that spear back with a twist that tore and dragged the intestines out. Rage was a powerful feeling, one that could offer amazing protection against mind attacks. But Kimmuriel didn't have much time to waste on bringing down the female's mental defenses, so instead of a more delicate approach, he settled for a brutal assault instead. Likely, there wouldn't be much of the female's sanity left after he was through with her. But it didn't really matter, since, by the time he was through with her, there wouldn't be much of the female left anyway. Kimmuriel just hoped she would last long enough for him to pry the information he needed out of her mind. Being, after all, a Red Sister hand-picked by Sinvyl herself, she didn't disappoint him. Her mental defenses were strong indeed.

Very strong, Kimmuriel reflected some half an hour later as his companions dragged the now slobbering, mind-crushed creature away. He didn't bother to give them any instructions, confident in their ability to dispose of the body and arrange for it to appear as if she had been killed by the Lith My'athar scouts… in case the body ever got discovered at all. But better if it remained hidden. Much better, for that would seriously reduce the chances of Kimmuriel and his band's treacherous activities being discovered. The consequences of that would be dire, even more dire then the female previously implied, and not something the pscionic wished to dwell on. By the order of Sinvyl herself, he and almost his entire band should be somewhere far to the north and on their way to Skullport. And yet, here he was, accompanied by a few of his mercenaries, scouting out the caverns west of Lith My'athar for his own purposes. The mere thought of all the trouble he went through to get here made him jittery, especially the parts involving Yasvyrae. How many lies he had to come up with, how many webs he spun across her eyes in order to get here? Normally, Kimmuriel, like any other drow, enjoyed the subtle lie-within-a-lie games, but too much was too much, and the arrogant Red Sister Sinvyl appointed as a "co-leader of Bregan D'Aerthe", as she so sarcastically put it, really wasn't easy to fool. Still, Kimmuriel eventually succeeded in his ruse and managed to get away from the core of his forces for a while. And for a good purpose too.

Bregan D'Aerthe was never a war party, though it boasted more skilled warriors then many of Menzoberanzzan Houses did. No, it was information that was their prime trade. But now, Sinvyl had other ideas, ideas that were likely to bring about the eventual destruction of the mercenary band – something that Kimmuriel didn't plan to allow.

"_Easier said than done,_" he grumbled to himself, wishing, for the thousandth time, that Jarlaxle was here now. Jarlaxle - the charismatic, outrageously flamboyant Jarlaxle, a male who rose to power in the matriarchal hell of Menzoberanzzan; Jarlaxle, the founder and, for more than two centuries, the supreme leader of Bregan D'Aerthe; Jarlaxle, the crafty schemer who could turn every disaster into his own advantage and profit… Jarlaxle, the bloody, whimsical bastard who left him the leadership over the mercenary band and merrily skipped off into directions unknown to have his fun on the surface with his human companion. Kimmuriel half-snickered, half-growled, as he thought of his former leader. Even he would be hard-pressed to turn this situation into a favorable one.

But Jarlaxle wasn't here, and there was no point wasting time on these thoughts any more. Not that there was much time to be wasted anyway. Sinvyl and her forces were drawing near and if he wanted to act, he'd better do it soon. The rebels already took out the beholders and prior to that, much to Kimmuriel's utter surprise, Zorvak'mur. An haszak settlement, for crying out loud! The most powerful of all psionic creatures! For all his mental prowess, Kimmuriel knew that he himself would be no match for the haszakkin, so the usually arrogant pscionist harbored a healthy measure of respect for the bulbous-headed creatures. And yet, those rebels had taken out their entire settlement in less then a day! Even with all those golems they had (and just where did they get them and, more importantly, how did they manage to transport them to Zorvak'mur without anyone noticing!) it was still something that made Kimmuriel pause. And it made Sinvyl pause as well. She had been counting on those forces after all, not just for destroying the rebels (she hardly needed much help with that anyway) but for future conquests as well. Sinvyl wasn't the type who appreciated having her precious plans spoiled.

And Kimmuriel suspected she'd soon have even more reasons to fume - According to his latest information, just this morning the Lith My'athar rebels stumbled upon the last of Sinvyl's allies in this region – namely, the vampire cult to the south. Apparently, the same tiefling warrior and the same iblith female who were responsible for taking out Sabal's party a few moths ago played a major role in this event as well – a fact that Kimmuriel found to be particularly interesting, especially if they succeed in destroying the cult. Now, there was the matter of that dracolich to be considered, but given the duo's previous accomplishments, it wasn't so out of mind to assume they just might take that one out too. And that made those two increasingly important for the distressed psionicst's plans.

Of the tiefling, he knew next to nothing, save that he was one of the commanders in charge of the rebel forces, possibly a Blood War veteran and a tremendous warrior – that last bit of information being the easiest to acquire, since his exploits pretty much spoke for themselves. One of Bregan D'Aerthe wizards eventually managed to gain some additional information from a quasit he had summoned. Apperantly, the tiefling was a renegade of sorts, which wasn't that much of a surprise. But according to the quasit, said tiefling had actually killed a balor (?) who was his former master – something Kimmuriel still had difficulty believing completely. Other than that, however, and no matter how hard Kimmuriel tried, no additional information could be found on the tiefling. The other member of the potent duo, though, was a slightly different story.

Shortly after the rebels fled to Lith My'athar, Sinvyl was informed of an iblith female joining their ranks. Which would be of no importance if it hadn't been for the fact that she received that information through a divination spell, which implied that the iblith might be of some significance after all. Another divination however revealed nothing more than a vague description of said female, an off-hand notion (which proved true by the way) that she was but a small player in the game after all, and it briefly mentioned a surname Z'hinrret - something that, for some reason, seemed to amuse Sinvyl greatly at the time. After a while, it also made her send none other than a favorite pet of hers, Eldath Ra'sin, on a hunt while chuckling at a "delightful irony of it all." Well, Ra'sin never returned from that hunt and in the meantime, Kimmuriel secretly utilized many of Bregan D'Aerthe sources in order to acquire some additional information on the increasingly intriguing iblith female. This proved to be quite a difficult thing to do. After all, digging out the information on some rather insignificant events that took place more then a decade ago was never easy, and the object of his inquiries proved to be even more insignificant than the events themselves, thus making any information extremely hard to come by.

But Bregan D'Aerthe didn't have its reputation as information gatherer supreme for nothing and after about a month or so, Kimmuriel received a (very thin) report from Menzoberanzzan detailing a certain surface raid near Calimport (at which Kimmuriel winced, remembering keenly some far-from-pleasant events he was a part of that took place there some time ago) and, subsequently, the fate of one Izzlyn Z'hinrret – a commoner of House Deraemtor of (now destroyed) city Ched Nasad; a Darkmask; a priest of Vhaeraun whose settlement, a small Calishite cell of Dark Daggers, had been raided and who was, much to his dismay, caught and brought back to Menzoberanzzan alive… And kept alive for more then two years. The report didn't contain many details about it but simply stated: "For more information, see: Arach-Tinilith, ground floor, left corridor, exhibit five." Next, the report mentioned Eldath Ra'sin being somehow involved in the raid, though the exact nature of his involvement remained obscure. He was labeled as being a very helpful asset to the raiders, but that was about it. Lastly, the report also contained a listing of captives brought back to be sold as slaves and Kimmuriel's attention was instantly drawn to one in particular – a female half-elf (noted advantages: mute, has basic understanding of drow language; noted flaws: mute, has basic understanding of drow language; sold to Arach-Tinilith).

Could it be, Kimmuriel mused, that that particular slave and the Lith My'athar iblith female were one and the same? After all, the description he had of the female did say she was a tu'rilthiir, but could pass as a quarter-breed or even as a full-blooded (though rather skinny) human – something that was extremely rare. But not impossible, and it matched the slave's description perfectly.

Be that as it may, even if his assumptions were true, in the end, all that information didn't mean much. While undeniably powerful (for an iblith, that is), Kimmuriel hardly believed that one vengeful surfacer would make much difference in the grand scale of events.

Still, beggars can't choose, as goes the surface saying. If there was anything more to the tiefling and the female, Kimmuriel had to find it out. And if there was a place where answers could be found, it was Lith My'athar.

Leaning back against the wall while waiting for his soldiers to return, the psionic closed his eyes and began sorting out the most important facts one final time:

One – He was the leader of Bregan D'Aerthe. Two – Right now, that position was as tentative as it ever was. Three – Jarlaxle would laugh his head off if he saw him right now… All right, scratch that! Three – Sinvyl Bar'ritar was a bitch and he hated her guts profoundly. On second thought, that went without saying, so scratch that one as well. So, three – most of his band was on it's way to Skullport, clearing the path for Sinvyl's arrival and eventual conquering of that city on their way to the surface. Four – There was once a Matron Baenre, the most powerful matron ever, who also tried her hand at surface-conquering once… and failed utterly. Five – Sinvyl obviously didn't get the message. Though, six – Matron Baenre had many powerful allies, but she never, ever numbered an archduke of Cania among them. And seven – Sinvyl did. Eight - According to the Red Sister (by now already a corpse) Matron Myrune Maeviir was dead and her daughter, Zesyyr, the new Matron Mother, had just changed sides (and probably wisely so). Nine – The rebels of Lith My'athar were remarkably (or foolishly) still putting up a fight. Ten – which probably meant that they were either complete idiots, or weren't sure about the arch-duke thing or, most likely, both. Eleven – The rebels were, all in all, an idealistic bunch of Ellistraee-following idiots with the addition of a tiefling warrior, a converted Red Sister and a rivvin (pardon, tu'rilthiir) female who were, according to the amount of barely-noticable headaches (and slightly more noticeable amusement) they caused Sinvyl, the best the rebels had to offer. So twelve – The rebels were definitely doomed. But thirteen – that only meant that, after they were destroyed and Sinvyl reached Skullport, so was Bregan D'Aerthe. Fourteen – If he didn't know Jarlaxle would most probably take his head off if he tried to track him down, that's precisely what he would be doing right now instead of standing here and pondering how to get himself and the band out of this mess alive. Fifteen – He felt horrible. Sixteen – And thinking about it wasn't helping any. Seventeen – So he'd better stop acting like a fool and focus. Eighteen – Which was growing hard to do. Nineteen – But not impossibly so. Twenty – Or so he hoped.

**...X**

Good two hours later, the Bregan D'Aerthe soldiers returned from their corpse-disposing mission only to find their leader measuring the point two hundred and twenty – "there is a way to play both sides of this mess" against the point two hundred and twenty one – "but it's such an outrageous wild-shot that even Jarlaxle would think twice before trying it." Seeing the dangerous psionic was not in his best mood, the soldiers decided to wait.

"_Are they on the trail?_" Kimmuriel asked suddenly after some half an hour of rather uncomfortable silence. It took his soldiers a few moments to realize he was referring to the party of three that was, unbeknownst to Sinvyl and her Red Sisters, following the rebel scouts instead of being miles away on the path to Skullport. Kimmuriel waited patiently – a very uncharacteristic thing for him to do which told his soldiers beyond doubt that their leader was indeed out of sorts. After some affirmative nodding, with a thought and a snap of his fingers, Kimmuriel brought up a portal to their current hideout and motioned for his companions to step through.

With the soldiers gone, he quickly brought up another portal and stepped through.

Emerging in another section of the western caverns, this one much closer to Lith My'athar, he turned invisible, picked up his pace and proceeded towards the city. Time to do some scouting on his own. And maybe, find some answers he needed if he and his band were to survive.

* * *

**A day or so later…**

The Gates of Lith My'athar were imposing. Built of hard rock and solid adamantium and the lack of available hand-holds was enough to challenge even the most skilled of rogues. In addition to that, the guards – both visible and hidden, patrolling the gate and the side walls were of a highly trained and amazingly alert sort. And should one try to bypass all that through the use of magic, be it Teleport, Blink, Displacement or Pass Wall, one would soon find that the gates and the walls were heavily enchanted against those tricks too.

So, Lith My'athar was quite secure against a roguish and wizardly intrusions alike (which was also the reason none of the Valsharess's assassins ever got in) A psionic, however… A psionic could find a way in. All it took was a little careful planning, the right timing, and a stolen House Maeviir insignia.

Kimmuriel smirked. Time for Bregan D'Aerthe to pay the Lith My'athar rebels a visit at last.

* * *

**Elsewhere…**

"_Have they returned?_" A voice, cold and beautiful as its owner, stabs into the ears of the listeners as an icicle might.

"_Not yet,_" another replies. Then, sensing the displeasure, quickly adds, "_But the others have…_"

"_I know!_" the first voice lashes out.

And so does the whip.

There is a hushed groan. To cry out louder might provoke further ire. That would not be wise.

"_Send another party. A small one. I want an explanation for this delay… A good explanation._" An order, to the one of higher ranking, standing behind. A deep bow and she, who was addressed, leaves.

"_I am not pleased,_" the cold voice exclaims.

The kneeling male swallows uncomfortably. She was not this displeased before. Not even when the illithids were destroyed. He wonders why.

"_Leave!_"

He draws back a few feet while still on his knees, then half-rises and bows several times before leaving her presence. He withholds a sigh of relief for later, when he is out of her sight. Eyes lowered respectfully, he walks past the females and returns to his post.

Another meeting has passed. Another day, and he is still alive.

But that means nothing. He knows that well.

She likes playing games.

**...X**

Now alone, she coils her whip and places it back on her hip. Had they failed? Had Vix'thra? She frowns and places a delicate finger on her lips as she ponders. The thought of failure doesn't appeal to her. But, she is more amused then angry.

She likes playing games. She likes her prey to think it can elude her.

Her thoughts wander to Zorvak'mur. And she smiles, her full lips parting as the tip of her tongue licks them softly. They were victorious there, weren't they? It amuses her greatly that her prey thinks so. Yes, they destroyed Zorvak'mur. But not before the Elder Brain performed its task. And she chuckles lightly, almost childishly, as her fingers play with a dagger, a dagger that once belonged to another. And the dagger glows for a moment, and her smile widens.

She likes playing games. She likes her prey to think it can elude her. And she likes, oh how she likes, to steadily weave her web around it… Until it's caught at last, realizing its mistake only when it's too late.

* * *

**Behind eyelids closed…**

Ghostly, desolate landscape. Wind sweeps through the endless plane, hostile and frigid. Whiteness spread into eternity… empty… trailing away into the dim horizon.

Apparitions shudder in the mist, elusive and translucent. The faces – familiar, unknown, remembered, forgotten – but all of them pale, all of them accusing…

Whispers, like fluttering wings, so distant, yet so close, their words lost to the ear… But their meaning clear. Whispers of past… Whispers of death.

And the dream fades away, as if it was never there. And the dreamer wakes, wondering, uncertain… But nothing was there… Nothing at all…

Wind howls over the plane, hostile and frigid like the land… like the heart…

Eyes, haunting, stare from the ice, reminding forever of sins unforgiven.

* * *

_One hundred reviews! Yay! Thank-you all! Now I'm really, really inspired to keep writing. ;)_

_I am very pleased by the fact that in your reviews you all focused on different parts of the chapter, which means that between all of you, you pointed out everything I wanted you to notice. ;) You're great, folks!Also, it seems like Imloth really caught your attention… which is why I've decided not to kill him for the second time. Congratulations! – You just saved one drow's life!_

**shadow0015:** Yeah, and I couldn't write the whole story like that no more than you could read it. ;) It was just a little experiment, and it seems it turned out well. Blackguard…? That _would_ be strange. And Valen… Hey, _you_ try being graceful after a banter with a venom-tongued shadowdancer (rabid, venomous creature… remember/grin/)

**Penname wa Silver B: **Well, here's more about Shi'van's past… though you edited this chapter, so you know it already. ;) And don't worry – I promised breakdowns, so breakdowns it shall be! Oh, and being clear-headed and rational about his own death is something that can't be said about many, period – not just the drow.

**Wolf-Kin: **Ah, here's someone who _doesn't_ agree with Shi'van for a change! Glad you mentioned it. Dropped you an email the other day, not sure if you got it. If you do feel like "going off on a page-long rant about my own opinions" feel free. ;) Seems like you too liked the 'style' of the chapter. Again, I'm glad, for I have no idea how would I write it otherwise. And this fic is rated M, so Teen rating is bound to be exceeded… though maybe not in the way you (and many others) think. ;) I'll say no more now, read it and see.

**Night Vendiviel: **Now, here is what I wanted to hear! You noticed the style change in part 3! Yay! No offense taken whatsoever – rather, I took it as a compliment. I still think you think too highly of my "writing style" though – I myself don't dare even call it a "style". But you're right, I did get influenced by some other writer's work, namely Pratchett. And since I sometimes like experimenting, maybe there'll be more of the "style changes" in the future. Still, I'll try to keep it down a bit, as requested. ;) And how will it all resolve? In a very wicked and rather unexpected ways, that's all I can say for now. /evil grin/

**R. Madillo: **Not sure about bearded drow… think males had beards in the first edition… or the second. Maybe remnants of some human blood, maybe a sub-race of drow (so I've heard). None of my drow have beards, that's for sure, Imloth included! And yeah, Imloth does know his way around almost any battlefield, though I think this "verbal war" he witnessed must be one of his toughest battles yet. ;) Aye, Shi'van does have a few good points, and I'm glad you sympathize with some of it – namely, those parts that I had hoped will catch people's attention the most.

**zazei: **Told ya every review counts! ;) You're the only one who mentioned Deekin's book as well as paid attention to the bounty part (several bounties, to be precise). Heh, and I don't think anyone liked Lavoera. ;)

**Lord Onisyr: **For some reason, your review isn't displayed yet as I'm typing this. Hopefully, it'll appear in due time. Anyway, you seem to be the only one to figure that Valen was, in fact, baiting Shi'van, much more calculated then people grew to expect from him. And yup, Shi'van's ready to pop all right… and soon, she will… as will Valen… and, come to think of it, everyone else as well ;) My 100th reviewer… Thanks/grin/


	23. Watchful Darkness

**Disclaimer:** All the characters, places and events belong to their creators. Shi'van's mine! And so are the original parts of this story! And if someone wants to sue me for the copyrights, I'll have them know I'm broke, so they won't make any money out of it… at least, no more then I'm making out of this. ;)

**A note:** Whew! Finally! I would have posted this chapter sooner, but for two things: One: I was quite busy failing my exams, and two: it took ages to get those few sentences at the end of the chapter written. Who would've thought? Whole chapters come out in matter of hours and then it takes days to write just few measly sentences!  
Anyway, I had to go back in time and reflect a bit on what went on in Lith My'athar during the Drearing Deep action, so this is what this chapter is all about. If it drags a bit - I'm sorry, but without it, some things simply won't make much sense later on. Also, I used this opportunity to give Deekin some due credit for the creation of certain magical items which I hope you'll like.  
For those of you who don't know: "_piwafwi_" is drow cloak that covers the body heat and makes the wearer difficult to see in darkvision. Quite a common item in Underdark – all drow wear them.  
Another important bit of information: Vhaeraun's eyes (and hair) change in hue from red (for anger) to gold (triumph) to blue (amusement) and green (puzzlement or curious interest) to reflect his mood.

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 15 **

**Watchful Darkness**

* * *

**Over the course of two weeks, as the trio was on its way to Drearing's Deep and, subsequently, into the very heart of the Vix'thrite cult that ruled it, the days in Lith My'athar were marked by busy, all-out preparations.**

**The chanting of Ellistraee priestesses rose from the temple, and at the training grounds, the ringing of steel never ceased. The fires in the forge never went out as the master craftsmen and his apprentices worked day and night, crafting and enhancing weapons and armor, filling catapult ammunition with devastating fire and acidic charges and creating many traps and obstacles to be used in the defense of the main gates and the city streets alike. Through the labor of both Ferron's golems and the ever-increasing number of former slaves rescued form the caverns surrounding the now-leaderless beholder lair and the destroyed Zorvak'mur, at the main gates the barricades were raised and reinforced, supplies of both water and food were stored near the rothe pens. Also, a number of last-resort escape routes and several relatively stable small portals were opened in secrecy… just in case. Meanwhile, in the House Maeviir, trouble was brewing once more as its Matron vented her frustrations on her subordinates while anxiously waiting for her agent, Cahlind, to return.**

**As of yet, no one knew that all the while, they were being quietly observed by a certain psionic. But along with the pressure, or more likely, because of it, the strength of both faith and despair in the hearts of many also grew. And with it, the strength of a certain dark presence also increased.**

**When he arrived, Kimmuriel found that his weren't the only eyes observing from the shadows…**

* * *

Zesyyr sat on the throne tapping her fingers. By all appearances, she was calm. But the truth was the exact opposite. 

Ever since Shi'van marked her cheek, she never left her chambers without a glamour spell on. Mostly, of course, for vanity's sake, but there was also another reason – one that far outweighed her vanity. Maybe not in size, but most certainly in importance. Zesyyr was a Matron Mother, the supreme, ultimate ruler of the lives and deaths of all those around her. To show openly that she was wounded, to let them know that she, in spite of her station, could still be defeated by someone, would spell an instant disaster for her. It was different when a Matron was killed by one of her daughters – that was acceptable; that was the way things worked… That had been the way of L'loth for thousands of years and would be the way of L'loth for thousands more to come. But this, this thing that Shi'van had done to her… this was unimaginable. And Zesyyr simply couldn't allow that kind of news to spread through her house. But somehow, some of her underlings had found out... and now, they were whispering.

Her face became white with rage. How dare they? Did they think they could fool her! Did they think she didn't hear them! All of them… Behind her back… Whispering about her, about her plans, about her rule… about her face…

Well, that was something she would not allow!

A female bodyguard watched her Matron rise abruptly and storm out. Yes, she knew very well where her Matron's frustrations lay. The commoners were indeed getting too bold recently. But Matron Zesyyr knew how to keep them in line… and she was doing so masterfully. Not a day would pass without at least one of the males finding the wrong side of her whip. Several found even more then that – After all, what is the point of having a torture chamber if it remains unused? And aside from the sheer pleasure found in putting the males in their place in various ways, the Matron's frequent outbursts of rage also served as a constant reminder to her House that her will was the ultimate law and that even the slightest disobedience had dire consequences.

Oh yes, Matron Zesyyr was wise as she was cruel, the female mused, as another random commoner was obviously about to find out… Well, the wisdom of it would likely be lost to him. But the cruelty he would feel keenly.

An evil smile on her lips, the female bodyguard followed her Matron out into the corridor.

**...X **

With a snarl, Zesyyr spun about and smacked the unsuspecting commoner in the face. Caught completely off guard, the male stammered back and looked at his Matron in surprise. He realized his mistake almost instantly… But it was too late.

A barbed three-tailed whip lashed out. The male screamed as the weapon bit deeply into his flesh, leaving searing pain in it's wake. Her fury unleashed, Zesyyr came at him like possessed. In but a few savage strikes, the male went down, his piwafwi fast turning dark red. Snarling, Zesyyr grabed his cloak with her free hand and yanked it free, at the same time planting her foot on his back. The male gasped for breath, choking. What little protection his cloak had offered was now gone. The fabric of his clothes tore sharply under the cracks of the whip, his skin flayed off of his back, his hands and his face alike - everywhere where Zesyyr's weapon connected with his flesh - sharp steel shards intertwined in the whip's three tails quickly tearing the skin, tearing his muscles into trembling, bloodied chunks. He curled up and threw his hands over his face, trying to protect at least some parts of his body. But to no avail. Zesyyr's boot kicked hard into his kidneys. Instinctively, his hands shot down, clutching at the stomach. The boot connected with his face, forcing him to uncurl, breaking his nose in the process. His vision blurred as the blood poured into his eyes.

All the while, the whip kept cracking, every crack accompanied by another scream, every scream a little weaker then the one before. Blood sprayed the corridor – tiny red drops flying through the air, showering all who stood nearby.

One of the females smirked as the blood splashed on her face. Carefully, she licked it off her lips, savoring the taste, all the while her attention fully focused on the splendor that was her Matron Mother, venturing punishment on an impudent male. And the punishment went on…

His entire body felt like one big wound. In truth, it was rapidly turning into exactly that. The pain was excruciating. And yet, somehow, he remained conscious… And cursing himself for it.

**...X **

Further down the corridor, another pair of eyes were fixed upon the ongoing punishment. And they weren't amused. They were worried. And angry.

The situation in the House had been unbearable these past few weeks. And Zesyyr was only becoming more bloodthirsty. Already, several fairly skilled warriors had paid the ultimate price for even the slightest offenses, and Vhaeraun knew how many more had been dragged to the lower chambers for Zesyyr's torturous pleasures… And Tarnash was away.

Gulthrys gave it a silent growl. He needed the weapon master here. Tarnash always had a reputation for standing up for his own. Nothing rash, of course, but whenever a female went out of line, Tarnash was always around and ready to somehow divert her anger, thus sparing the unfortunate soldier of having to practice with sore back. It wasn't out of any compassion he felt (for in truth, the cocky weapon master had none) but out of pure pragmatism. He was simply collecting favors and insuring the discipline. True, he too was known to use a whip sometimes, which was always a damn good mean of installing the discipline, but Tarnash always found that just a few lashes and, eventually, a good kick or two were enough. Which was, aside from his considerable charisma, the reason he always commanded respect from his lessers.

And respect was what he needed if he truly planned to pull that entire Vhaeraun plan off. But with Zesyyr's constant outbursts, and the weapon master almost constantly at the training grounds instead of in the House, that respect had begun to dwindle. And that wasn't good. Gulthrys made a mental note to remind Tarnash of it. And soon.

**...X **

Meanwhile, the male was slowly running out of screams, and was now merely writhing on the floor, whimpering occasionally. Her rage still not played out fully, Zesyyr spun on her heel (causing a wave of stumbling as those that were behind her tried to clear off her path) and motioned for the male to be taken to the dungeon. As two nearby females eagerly obeyed her, she set in the pace beside them.

"_I will torture the male personally,_" she said in an answer to the females' unspoken question. "_Jivvin quui'elghinn,_" she added, an evil smile spreading on her face. The females returned her smile tenfolds. What their Matron had in mind was a torture to death of a very special kind – one that would leave the victim conscious and alive for a very, very long time. In their eyes, such punshment was well deserved for the unforgivable sin the male had committed – Showing disrespect to his Matron Mother! And what a disrespect it was. When she first punched him, he hadn't lowered his gaze!

The doomed male shuddered before finally slipping into blessed unconsciousness as the females dragged him towards the dungeon. The last thing he had heard was Zesyyr's voice.

He wished he hadn't.

**...X**

No one ever looked at the patch of darkness in the far corner of the compound. But if anyone had, they would have seen a pair of eyes burning bright red.

* * *

The blades of the sabers were black. Dark, tarnished black. If those blades came at you from the darkness, you'd never get to see a warning glint of steel before you were run through. Which was precisely the idea.

As per order, the weapons were of quite simple design. Efficiency over aesthetics.

The hand-guards on each was slightly rounded, designed to efficiently protect the wielder's hand and at the same time allow whatever weapon collided with to it slide down the side rather then to take the impact and thus risk wrist fracture.

While the weapons were almost identical, in shape, size and weight alike, several differences did exist. The pommels, for instance. One appeared almost mist-like, crafted out of some black crystallic material that seemed to suck in the light. The other one was made of the same material, but had just a slightest tint of green to it and was shaped to resemble a head of a snake.

A casual glance could not reveal it, but closer inspection showed small, delicate ornamentation on the hilts, which allowed a firmer grip and reduced the chance of the weapons slipping from the wielder's grasp once the palms become too sweaty.

Both weapons were perfectly balanced, but much lighter then their size would suggest. But what they lacked in weight, they made up for in sharpness, which perfectly suited the fighting style of the one who ordered them. Light enough to be turned and twisted much faster then an ordinary set of sabers, yet heavy just enough to gain the momentum needed for a successful strike.

And then, there were enchantments. Aside from the ones both weapons were imbued with, like sharpness for instance, each blade had a few special properties as well.

With every really successful strike, the snake-pommeled one would "spit" poison as deadly as that of a viper into an opened wound - the poison's effects could vary slightly depending of how well the recipient resisted it, but would always cause at least mild nausea if only for a little while. Also, whenever it struck, the blade would release some small amount of acid, perhaps not enough to melt through a solid suit of armor (though even that might be possible) but having acid eat away at the wound was sure to cause some painful effects.

The other blade was even more potent than the snake-pommeled one. First and foremost, on a serious hit, it could drain the opponents of their life-force and transfer it in a form of healing energy to it's wielder, which was perhaps the most powerful (and many would say downright evil) enchantment a weapon could have. In addition to that, the blade could also "emate" or "thicken" the darkness around it, while at the same time obscuring the body temperature of the wielder, thus making said wielder particularly hard to see in both normal and darkvision alike.

Rizolvir examined the sabers with a wide, satisfied smile on his face. It had taken him months of work to make them. But now, they were finally done. And they were easily the very crowns of his blade-crafting career too. He had every reason to be proud of himself.

Giving the weapons one final loving look, the drow craftsman slid them into their scabbards and carefully placed them into a drawer to wait for their future wielder. Oloth and Charr, they were dubbed, Darkness and Venom. And given the identity of the one who had ordered them, Rizolvir couldn't think of names more suitable.

**...X **

From somewhere within the shadows, a pair of green glowing eyes observed both the blades and the craftsman who made them. The craftsman turned just in time to see those eyes before they disappeared again. One green eye winked at him.

A wide grin spread on Rizolvir's face. And he winked back.

* * *

Back at the temple, the Seer relentlessly worked the enchantments on the small crystal globes Gulthrys had provided her with. While already infused with a sounding spell, most globes were still translucent and pale, only several of them shining with soft inner light. In the middle of the table, among the common, marble-sized ones, lay several slightly larger globes and on a nearby shelf, rested the two largest, fist-sized ones. Once imbued with proper spells, all globes would be magically connected with one another, so that the defenders would be able to communicate through them during the battle. Which, coupled with the scrying mirror through which the entire battle could be observed, made the whole commanding and coordinating process much easier and, more importantly, much more efficient. Inserted in necklaces, gauntlets or other convenient items, the small ones would be distributed to troop commanders and larger ones to the army generals. The two largest ones were reserved for Matron Zessyr and the Seer herself.

The Seer wished at least one of her priestesses was powerful enough to help her with these enchantments, but this magic was too complex for any but herself to muster. Well, Gulthrys could've been of assistance, the Seer reflected, but Zesyyr kept him occupied with adding to the House Maeviir defenses… mostly because she preferred to keep her unpredictable wizard close and on leash. And even if it wasn't so, Gulthrys and several lesser wizards were too busy scribing scrolls and enchanting wands with offensive magic anyway. And so, while wizards prepared the offensive magic and the rest of Ellistraee clergy was busy preparing scrolls, potions and other healing assets for the oncoming battle, the Seer alone had to prepare these globes in time. Well, not really alone, she frowned. In fact, she couldn't finish this job on her own at all. The final magical touches had to be made by another, but the one who was supposed to do that hadn't shown up yet.

Long had the Seer wondered just how to make the globes work this way. Help came from the side even she didn't expect - The kobold bard. It was Deekin who suggested that magic is really not that much unlike music. Like instruments, the globes could be 'tuned' by a skilled bard and like instrument sections, they could be bound together and under the "leading instruments" – larger globes carried by the commanders. A brilliant idea altogether, but they needed a bard to perform it… and the bard was late.

The Seer sighed deeply. Deekin was in habit of doing that as of late. And while she had to give the little kobold some credit for so successfully organizing and taking care of all the rescued slaves that practically poured into the city these past two weeks, she still couldn't help but think that he spent entirely too much time with them… and one kobold female in particular. But then again, she couldn't really blame him for it either. After all, he hadn't been around his own kin in ages and… well, it was only natural that he… well… errr…

With a slight chuckle, the Seer stopped her thoughts from going in that particular direction. She was sure whatever a pair of kobolds might be doing alone in Deekin's quarters she didn't want a mental image of it.

Pausing only to wipe a thin line of sweat from her forehead, and give a few short instructions to the lesser priestesses that scurried about the temple, the Seer sighed and returned to her work.

**...X **

The temple was a place of Ellistraee. No prying eyes were able to find their way inside without being detected. But outside the temple, for an instant only, one guard thought she saw the shape of a mask flickering in the shadows.

* * *

"_Close the gates,_" Osyyr ordered as the last of the scouting party entered the courtyard. Dozens of frightened kobolds stared wide-eyed at the drow that surrounded them. As the scouts, tired and hungry, headed towards the city, the kobolds looked at each other and huddled closer together, still uncertain whether they had been rescued or merely changed hands. Osyyr chuckled. This was getting to be a rather common sight recently, but no matter how many times he witnessed it, he knew he would never get quite used to it.

"_Go,_" he addressed the kobolds, pointing towards the inner gates. The little beasts stared at him for a few moments before reluctantly obeying. Osyyr smirked as he watched them go. Already he heard a recognizable flutter of small leathery wings as Deekin, followed closely by another kobold (a female, Osyyr was told, though he could hardly tell the difference himself) rushed out to greet his newly arrived kin. Well, you had to hand it to the small fellow – He really did a good job of handling the slaves, both kobolds and other. Ossyr could only imagine what the situation would be like if they had all those refugees running aimlessly through the city these past few weeks.

Another glance towards the inner gates and at Deekin efficiently, but caringly, herding the newly-arrived kobolds into the improvised sick bay sent a shudder down his spine. Ordinarily, drow would simply use them as fodder in the upcoming battle without even blinking.Osyyr simply couldn't get himself to even think about doing such a thing any more, and to think about how would Deekin react to it even less. "Damn," he chuckled under his breath, giving the gate wall a helpless little kick. That silly little kobold had actually grown on him.

**...X **

A drow marksman observed the sight from his post up on a huge stalagmite, a sour look imprinted on his sharp features. What in the world did the Seer plan to do with all those… for lack of a better word, people?

This outpost would be attacked any day now for crying out loud! And though everyone hoped it wouldn't come to that, ending up under the siege seemed almost inevitable. True, there was more than enough rothe in the cattle pens to support the defenders for quite a while… But for how long? Just how many mouth did they have to feed now? And how many of those were actually contributing something? How many would be of some use once the battle began? Many, but still fewer then the number of those who would be… Well, down right useless!

Yes, he did feel somewhat sorry for all those people the scouts had been rescuing, but when it came to choosing between their hides and his…

Mercy. Helping those in need. Defending the helpless… "_And the rest of the stuff one would expect from a drow,_" he muttered sarcastically. Well, it was the Dark Maiden's way and all, but still… He supposed it was all right for the Dark Maiden to sit wherever goddesses sit and preach compassion. But how about she came down and tried riding out this upcoming storm with the rest of them? Let her do some real helping for a change! …Like the Masked God was known to do.

**...X **

Deep in the shadows of the giant pillar, a pair of eyes flickered blue.

* * *

"_They're losing their trust in you._" Gulthrys said to Tarnash, as the two walked out to the balcony. 

His grave words shattered the Weapon Master's previous mirth in a snap.

"_I know,_" he said quietly.

"_You should be here more often,_" the wizard continued.

Tarnash looked at him from beneath the long strands of hair that fell on his face.

"_I know,_" he repeated, this time with a snarl.

"_If they are to follow you, they must know why are they doing that. They need to see what you have to offer… They need you to act as a leader who can and will stand up against the females of the House, not cower away at the first sign of trouble!_" the wizard went on, ignoring the threatening glare Tarnash was giving him. "_After all,_" he added venomously, "_Isn't it the word of The Masked God to aid oppressed males no matter what?_"

Tarnash's jaw tightened. Damn it all! How could he be at the training grounds and in the House at the same time? And even if he had been here …

"_What would you have me do, Gulthrys? Cut Zesyyr's head off?_" The wizard's expression was all the answer he needed. "_It's not yet the time,_" he growled in frustration. Gulthrys tried to say something, but Tarnash quickly raised his hand to stop him. "_Not yet the time,_" he repeated, "_And we'll drop this subject right now! I have duties at the training grounds and you have yours at the Temple, and…_" He bit his lip, and looked at the wizard seriously. "_I'll take care of it. Have patience… And stay out of Zesyyr's way._"

"_Precisely what I plan to do,_" the wizard smirked.

Little did he know that very soon, his plan would be spoiled. And in a very nasty way, too.

**...X **

**"**_Give me the sense to wonder  
To wonder if I'm free  
Give me a sense of wonder  
To know I can be me  
Give me the strength to hold my head up  
Spit back in their face…**"**_  
"_Can I Play With Madness,_"_ Iron Maiden_

Knowing just how much Gulthrys hated it when his doors were slammed shut, Tarnash slammed them loudly his way out. To all who saw him, his gait appeared confident as ever, his face an unreadable mask of usual cockiness and mild amusement. But in truth, Tarnash wanted nothing better then to scream.

He briskly made his way past the dungeon doors and as if on cue, a muffled cry of pain echoed through. Tarnash winced (and instinctively flexed his wrist to cover for it, just in case. You never know when someone might be observing). What kind of pain might the unfortunate victim be enduring if, even though the dungeons were quite sound-proof, his scream was heard all the way out in the corridor?

It wasn't really the torture itself (save when he was the one on the receiving end, of course) that offended the Weapon Master so - it was the very idea of the power Zesyyr wielded. Hells, at least half of the warriors she had imprisoned right now could kill her without even breaking a sweat! And yet they didn't. Instead, they allowed themselves to be shackled and beaten, for no better reason then Zesyyr's whim! He made a mental note that he must do something about that… as soon as he figured out just what the hell he could do. Without risking his own life too much, that is. "_Show your Matron Mother due respect,_" - both an order and advice you would be wise to heed if you valued your hide any. Well how the hell could you respect someone who so pointlessly diminished her own numbers!

The mere thought of it made Tarnash want to storm into the throne room and strangle the bitch with his bare hands!

Due respect indeed…

Thank Vhaeraun he had his duties at the training grounds. If he had been forced to stay in the House all the time, he'd burst.

Damn! He never thought that he would be eager for the Valsharess' attack to begin. But he found himself wanting it to happen as soon as possible now. No matter the outcome, at least this whole business with Zessyr would be over once and for all. And even if he himself died, at least he'd die knowing that she went down first.

**...X **

For a moment only, an outline of a mask formed somewhere in the shadows. And the eyes behind the mask turned from red to gold.

* * *

**Elsewhere…**

"_Vix'thra is dead._"

Ruby red eyes flicker with constrained fury and a touch of sly amusement.

"_As he had been for a rather long time now._" A voice, taunting, blending venom and honey.

The female is at the loss for words at the moment and for just an instant, her eyes betray her uneasiness. An instant is all it takes. A whip lashes out and… it hits the floor beside her. The female neither moves nor flinches. As is expected. She passed her test.

"_So,_" purrs the voice, "_What would your suggestion be?_"

The female's lip curves as she pretends to ponder the question. But in truth, she already has an answer and a wicked light finds its way into her eyes as she speaks.

"_Let us use what is left to our advantage._"

A shuffle of silk as the slender figure slides down from the throne.

"_How?_" The purring grows more amused now and the smell of sweet perfume fills the female's nostrils as the footsteps draw nearer.

"_Fodder, of course,_" the female smiles, "_One that they wouldn't be so quick to dispose of._"

"_Of course._" The voice is soft now in her ear. She can feel the warm breath on her neck. A hand gently clasps her chin, lifts it slowly and then, lips suddenly press against her own, in a savage, passionate kiss. She is pleased. But her other hand presses against the female's breast and twists it painfully. She is also displeased. The female gasps, a moment of pleasure and pain an elation to her. And it lasts. Indefinitely. Then, the female is pushed backwards, roughly, breaking the lecherous moment, but the ruby-red eyes looking at her hold a promise of more pleasure to come. And the female licks her lips and smiles.

"_Go now. Quickly,_" she is told, and as she steps back, a hand still lingers on her breasts. "_Return to me quickly, with news of your success._"

And the female bows and takes her leave, waving her hips seductively, alluringly. She still savors the taste on her lips, and she is eager to obey and then return to her side, for she knows – to please her is to feel pleasure in turn.

**...X **

"_Is it true? Was it really her doing too?_" the ruby-eyed one asks once she is alone.

"_Of course. My sources are always reliable._" The voice that answers is deep and smells slightly of sulfur. It sounds amused and the amusement only heightens as he, who spoke, observes her face. "_You are growing interested in her, aren't you?_"

Her slender body stretches lazily on the throne as she nods, a movement that would send shivers through every man's spine and start his loins on fire.

"_You want her?_" The sulfurous voice asks a question, yet the answer is obvious and known to him already.

"_A pity. Such a pity she is… constrained._" She trails her finger along his muscular arm and he smiles.

"_The… 'obstacle' can be removed,_" he says and her ruby eyes appear so innocent, almost child-like, as they look at him.

"_Really?_" Even her voice sounds child-like now, and if one could see her, hear that innocent voice and see her curiously biting her lip, one could almost be fooled by the act… Almost. He is not fooled, but it amuses him to play along. He, too, likes playing games.

"_Of course,_" he bows gracefully, his voice that of a purring tiger, "_should you so… desire._"

And she smiles in response, but no longer like a child. No, her smile is teasing and seductive as she takes a step back and leans on the throne again, and her eyes and her voice awash with lust.

"_Yes, I do… desire._"

* * *

**Tarnished Argentine…**

"_Rise my clandestines, thy secrecies invoked  
Streams of argentine across eyelids are drawn  
Rise upon the tide, my castaway's outworn…_** "**  
_ Tristania, "Lethean River "_

Argentine moisture across the eyes, basking the world in its soft glow; shrouding it in surreal mist; painting it in glitters of hope.  
Argentine, reflections of dream, obscuring the truth from argentine eyes.

Argentine illumination pales. In the shades of the dying light, argentine glitter's no more, painting the world in grey.  
Argentine, it glows no more, for there is no light to make it shine. Argentine – just a reflection, reflection of the outside light.

And inside? – Only the darkness. Nothing to light the argentine hope.  
Without the light, illusion is gone and false perceptions dispersed.

No light within… No light at all…

It was a lie! _A lie! **A lie!**_

Evaporating, argentine moisture, revealing the truth of argentine eyes.  
Tarnish! Beneath the surface, only the tarnished argentine. Dull; reflecting no light; covering the marks of dried blood.

* * *

_Whoa! 110 reviews! I'm flattered. ;) Seems like all of you liked Kim – Must be I portrayed him properly then. Another thing I'll have you all know: Inspiration for Nathyrra's headaches came from having a splitting one myself recently. But whatever comes out of it (if anything), I do believe that learning how to cast does cause you headaches! After all, studying for too long does, and I'd say trying to handle magical energies is much worse then trying to memorize a whole bunch of Latin names of plants. ;)_

**euphorbic:** We already exchanged enough emails, but I'll use this chance to officially dub thee forgiven! ;) Feel free to criticize whenever you feel criticism is in order – It's always greatly appreciated and it helps improve the story. As you can see, no Shi'van in this chapter either… But there will be a bit more of her in the next one.

**Penname wa Silver B:** I see you too liked Kim's way of getting information out of people. He's scanning the minds in this chapter too, but it's nothing that drastical, so I didn't bother writing about it. When the Trio (with the addition of one pillow-stuffing) returns however… ;)

**Essence Silverdragon:** Welcome back! I already thought I bored you to death with this. Glad you're still reading, and your reviews have been missed. Know that all my "lazy" reviewers are instantly forgiven the moment they start reviewing again. ;)

**shadow0015:** Yeah, I've been wondering why didn't the Valsharess send in the assassins from day one – I just had to explain it. Glad it makes sense. And for the convenience sake, I think we better dub her Sin, and Valen can be Val from now on. ;) Also, know that Shi'van would give just about anything if only someone else was in her shoes… Entreri under a geas… killing Sin… Ah, ideas, ideas…

**Night Vendiviel: **Oh my, and I got so used to sending you "mail alerts". ;) I thought it was fairly clear – those "shadows" trailing Nathyrra were Kim's boys. And why is Valsharess smiling? You'll see… (evil grin)

**Wolf-Kin:** "Really captures the haunting feel of a dream." – Thanks! That's what I was aiming for. ;) And as I already told you via email - No Cania! It's so idiotic it makes me puke! Anyway, I hope you liked "Tarnished Argentine" at least half as much as you did "Behind Eyelids Closed"

**R. Madillo:** Perceptive! The final part was indeed inspired by Cania. Glad someone figured it out. I don't want to reveal anything yet (yeah, I do like building the suspense), but I'll tell you this much – It's not Aribeth. Also, I'm glad you think I'm doing Nat right – never had her as a henchie, so I'm portraying her "blindly" so to speak. And here's a bit more of -her- in this chapter. Hope you liked it. ;)

**zazei:** Ah, you're again paying attention to things I thought no one cared to notice. Shi'van's age and time-table involved for instance. Don't worry, I have all the pieces put together there, but for now, I'll say this: Shi'van is a half-elf, thus she looks youthful. However, she isn't _that_ young. Don't want to say her exact age just yet, but I'll tell you that she's older then 20 and younger then 50. And yeah, psionics _do_ think a bit differently from the rest of the crowd. In fact, I believe that the difference between a "psionic" and a "psycho" is not that big really… and it's mostly in spelling. ;) And the arch duke? You'll see…


	24. Back From The Dead part one

**Disclaimer:** All the characters, places and events belong to their creators. Shi'van's mine! And so are the original parts of this story! And if someone wants to sue me for the copyrights, I'll have them know I'm broke, so they won't make any money out of it… at least, no more then I'm making out of this. ;)

Well, sorry I had you all waiting so long for this chapter, and I can only hope it'll prove to be worth all that waiting. It's a loooong one, so brace yurselves. Moreover, it's not really finished! –Somewhere around page 14 I realized I better break it in two after all, so this is the first part of it and the next one (shorter one) will be coming soon. The length of it is due to the fact that I really had no heart to cut out some scenes out of it. Now I can only hope I won't bore you to death. ;)

In summary, what I mostly did here was getting some people drunk and the others plain miserable… mostly. ;) Also gave some scenes more light-hearted and humorous tone, lest everything becomes tooo dark and gloomy, even for an angsty fic like this.

Having failed my exams and having serious problems putting this chapter together, I now believe with all my heart that good things happen occasionally and in small doses, while bad ones tend to happen all at once! And that is basically the idea in this chapter. Also, I tried to keep track of what many people are doing at the same time, so I am sorry if it proves to be a bit confusing – I tried my best, folks.

Lastly, I'll have you all know that Enserrick scenes were written months ago and that credit for those goes entirely to Penname wa Silver B! – Goes to show what happens when I read Pen's "Dark Shadowy Heart And Stuff" prior to writing Shadows. ;) Anyway, my idea of how that sword works is this: It doesn't talk as such, but rather it speaks into the wielder's mind, and it can do so only when held, or is close enough to the body. Its voice can be shut off, but that takes some practice first...

Oh, yes, I almost forgot: "_jalil_" means _female_; "_shebali_"means"_rogue_"

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 16 **

**Back From The Dead**

**part one**

**Dark Thoughts, Dark Blades…**

* * *

"The rebel of yesterday, tomorrow's fool  
Who are you kidding being that cool?"

"_Weekend Warrior," Iron Maiden_

Late one night, around the time the trio fought their way through the temple in Drearing's Deep, a silent shape climbed over the outer wall of Lith My'athar. Moving through the darkness and staying close to the walls, it quickly cleared the guard posts, the courtyard and the inner gates and slipped into the city. Swift and silent, it navigated the familiar streets and back alleys, taking rooftop shortcuts and roundabout routes alike, until finally, it reached its destination.

It never noticed an even darker, if somewhat insubstantial, shape moving steadily behind it.

Uttering under its breath a single command word, the dark figure disappeared from sight only to reappear an instant later inside the Maeviir compound and immediately proceed towards the throne room.

A moment after, another dark shape disappeared as well.

Matron Zesyyr smiled widely as the figure entered her chambers. The mere fact that her agent has returned alive told her that the mission was a success. Leaning back on her throne comfortably, she listened carefully as Cahlind gave her a detailed report, her smile growing ever wider. Yes, Lith My'athar will fall. And House Maeviir shall rise to prominence once more, under the guiding hand of Matron Zesyyr and her new ally – The Valsharess.

Neither female took notice when a shadow in the corner stirred slightly, as its occupant disappeared.

**...X **

Still unseen, Kimmuriel quickly made his way through the streets, leaving the Maeviir compound behind him.

A sound to his right alerted him to an approaching Ellistraee soldier. Swiftly, Kimmuriel stepped into a narrow side street. He didn't want to be seen. Not yet.

For days now, he had been silently spying on Lith My'athar rebels, on their activities and their minds alike, though he did refrain from entering the minds of the more powerful individuals present. Not that he couldn't enter those as well, but there was always the risk of getting detected, and as small as that possibility may have been, he still didn't want to chance it. Besides, the minds of the common soldiers proved to be more than sufficient for information gaining purposes and Kimmuriel was pretty certain that by now, he possessed all the knowledge he needed on Lith My'athar rebels. Not that said information was very encouraging, but neither was it unexpected. And it basically came down to this: Lith My'athar will fall! Period! They might have a chance of holding their ground for a few days – they were, after all, more than prepared for a siege - but few days was all they could hold before Sinvyl's troops beak through and reduce this settlement to a smoking pile of pebbles.

But that wasn't so important. The truly important question was: How many casualties will Sinvyl have? Not too many, he thought sourly, not if Matron Maeviir suceedes in pulling off her treachery. And where then will Bregan D'Aerthe be if Sinvyl's army wins this battle with loses barely noticeable? In a very tight spot – That's where they'll be!

And much to Kimmuriel's eternal dismay, the only thing that apperantly stood between that tight spot and his band was this pathetic bunch of Ellistraee-following rebels. Well… not all of them worshiped the Dark Maiden, he reminded himself. A certain power deep in the shadows was also here… And it was growing stronger. Daily. Not that the psionic had a particularly high opinion on Vhaeraun following drow either, but he considered them at least marginally more bearable than the Ellistraee lot. And they also had their god himself on their side. The avatar hadn't shown himself openly as of yet, but Kimmuriel was certain that when the time came, he would.

And so would the psionic himself.

Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow, he would pay the Seer a visit at last, if for no better reason, than to inform her of Zesyyr's treachery. If he wanted the rebels to actually cripple Sinvyl's forces enough so that Sinvyl would find Bregan D'Aerthe valuable enough not to discard, then the rebels must give her a kick to remember. And they could hardly do so if they ended up fighting each other… Or, if some important people didn't come back soon.

One of the reasons Kimmuriel came into Lith My'athar was to see for himself what the fuss about the tiefling and that iblith female was all about. And while his spying did give him a fairly good idea of just how powerful and important those two really were, he still hadn't had the dubious pleasure of meeting them in person.

It annoyed him greatly, but given the way they related with the rest of the Lith My'athar crowd, knowing just how intent they were on defeating Sinvyl turned out to be a very important factor in his plans.

What he had learned so far suggested that both of them were indeed mighty adversaries. Apperantly, both wielded quite a healthy amount of respect among the Lith My'athar drow. And also, both were feared. Now, as far as the tiefling was concerned, it wasn't so surprising. After all, physical and combat prowess were things drow always had respect for. Add to it the fact that the tiefling was also a capable commander, the one responsible for keeping the rebels alive and reaching Lith My'athar in the first place, and you can hardly expect him to command anything but fear and respect.

But respect for an iblith? From a drow? That was something the racistic psionic had a real hard time digesting. Still, he reminded himself, that iblith was the one responsible for the previous Matron Maeviir's demise. Kimmuriel remembered Myrune from Menzoberanzzan. If his memory served him right, she was alltogether an average Matron… but a Matron nevertheless. Her patron, Tebimar, whom the iblith also managed to kill, was reputedly quite a warrior in his own rights. And as if that wasn't enough, she had also killed Ra'sin! And not just him, but his entire scouting party as well! In the wild Underdark!

As much as he hated to admit it, it seemed that the female was powerful after all, and with more influence here among the drow, than he would ever expect an iblith to possibly have.

Well, there was another once, a human… but Kimmuriel preffered not to remember that one too often.

Shaking his head in dismay, the psionic moved away from the wall he was leaning on and carefully made his way into the more guarded areas of the city - The areas where the escape routes were; the areas that, thanks to Zesyyr's treachery, were now known to Sinvyl as well…

* * *

**The following morning…**

"…_And when the attack begins, you will see to it that the inner gates hold,_" Zesyyr was saying, "_so that the rebels get crushed between our soldiers and the Valsharess' forces._"

Tarnash swallowed hard as he nodded. For once, he was grateful that the Matron demanded all males to kneel in her presence. Had he been standing, she would've surely seen his expression… and then his life would be forfeit.

"_Now leave!_"

Tarnash swiftly rose to his feet and, giving his Matron another deep bow, went out.

**...X**

Behind the throne, an amused smirk played across Cahlind's beautiful face. The Weapon Master appeared truly eager, if slightly perturbed, to do his Matron's will. She, on the other hand, was no less eager to play her own role in the oncoming events. And unlike the male, she wasn't perturbed at all.

Zesyyr waved her hand once. Taking her cue, Cahlind bowed and left as well.

Stepping out of the room and into the wide, high-domed corridor, she glanced around hoping to see Tarnash. It had been so long since she last shared his company. But unfortunately, the male had already left. Bound for the training grounds, no doubt. A pity. She really wanted to have a few words with him. Well, suppose she'll have plenty of time for that once all this was over. For now, she had the House High Wizard to _summon_ into the Matron's chambers whre he will be informed of his own role in the upcoming coup against the rebels.

**...X**

Meanwhile, the flustered Weapon Master pushed the main house door open and stepped into the courtyard.

Vith! This new twist of events had sent his head spinning so wildly, he actually had to stop and clutch the door knob for support. So many things to sort out…

On one hand, he couldn't deny that, presently, switching sides was the best thing they could possibly do if they were to walk out of this cursed city alive. But that would mean Zesyyr stays on the throne (he remembered his reverential bow with disgust, but wisely masked his sneer as a cough as he walked on) in which case he could fling this whole Vhaeraun business out the window. And, despite his better judgment, Tarnash knew he'd rather impale himself on his own blades than do that. Too much effort had already been put into that scheme to just forget about it. And, for once, to be perfectly honest (at least with himself), he simply liked Vhaeraun's way too much to give it up.

For as long as he could remember, he had been living his life like any other low-born male in a female dominated society. And for as long as he could remember, he had hated it. But he had never known any alternative… Until now. And now that another, and a far better way presented itself in front of him, damn his black soul if he didn't try to take it!

And so, he must now find some way to inform that bloody Seer and her lot of Zesyyr's betrayal without getting caught doing it – something that was growing harder and harder to do as Zesyyr's paranoia and random scrying sessions increased in frequency. Damn it! As if he didn't have enough problems already! Well, at least Gulthrys' room was scry-proof and… And after all, as a House Wizard, he too would get informed of his own role in all this.

So, let the wizard bang his head about how to deliver the message to the Eillistraee crowd.

Still lost in thought, Tarnash passed the huge gate that surrounded the Maeviir compound, almost crashed into one excited soldier rushing in, and increased his pace.

"_Light upon you, Cahlind!_ " he hissed once he was a safe distance from the prying eyes, "_Why do you always have to be so damn successful, you bitch! Why didn't you just drop dead instead and made everybody happier for it?_" Oh, how hated her guts right now! More then ever! And that's saying a lot. It is rather hard to hate your own twin sister more then you already do.

Eager to get to the training grounds where he could vent his frustration freely (without arousing suspicion, that is), Tarnash had no idea that his troubles for the day had only begun.

* * *

As Tarnash was pondering the new situation he found himself in, several things happened at the approximately same time. 

First, one deva got roughly pushed into the outer gates courtyard. Then, few moments later, same treatment was given to one very troubled looking tiefling and a rather tired looking drow. So tired in fact, that he forgot to pull his hood low and as a result, his face was now revealed. Several excited cries of "_They're back! And… IMLOTH?_" echoed loudly throughout the courtyard and that, in turn, made one Maeviir soldier hurry back to the House, carriying the news that, she was certain, would not please her Matron much.

Realising that the masquerade was over (and not entirely unhappy about it either) Imloth grinned and readily accepted the warm hugs of welcome most of the gathered gate guards rushed to offer. Well.. . he was in mind of readily accepting them. But as soon as the first friendly pat landed on his back, he instantly remembered that, while his wounds have been somewhat mended, they still hurt like Nine Hells. Valen, on the other hand, would've been greeted just as warmly, but the expression on his face suggested that warm greetings were somethingng better left for later… Much later… Like, for when a friendly hug wouldn't provoke a flail in the head, for instance.

Using Lavoera as a shield against too much (painful) friendliness, Imloth quickly excused himself - After all, someone had to introduce one very-out-of-place-here deva to the Seer.

As Imloth departed in the direction of the temple, dragging the confused celestial behind, Valen trotted off into the public house, fully in mind of finding the foulest brew possible and then consuming it in private until the world around him turned blue.

Throughout all that commotion, one shadowy figure managed to slip away, completely unnoticed by any and all. Which was just as well. Had anybody seen Shi'van's face at the moment, chances are that seeing even the Valsharess herself would suddenly seem like a much better option.

* * *

True to his intentions, Valen briskly made his way through the streets, with a brief detour to dump his backpack in his room before proceeding to the public house. Thoughts and feelings, all of them contradictory to one another, plagued his heart and his mind alike. Only now, when it was all over, did the truth of the past events begin to fully settle in. 

A dracolich! They killed a bloody dracolich! And after slaying an elder vampire too! No stranger to foes of any sort, this realization still gave even the fiery tiefling a pause.

It wasn't so much what they had done (though the feat was still as remarkable as any the Blood War veteran had accomplished), it wasn't what had happened - it was what could've happened! They could've failed. Easily. And the consequences of that failure would've been as dire as they come. How crippled would the rebel forces be without them? How crippled had both of their generals died in that… that foolishness!

Aftershock, Valen realized. He was having an aftershock. And knowing how easily they could've failed was only half of the reason for it. The other half… The other half will have to wait, he decided. Not the type to solve his problems by drinking, he still needed one now. To calm down… to sort out his emotions and clear his mind… Or cloud it. At least for a while. Either way, he really needed that drink.

* * *

There was something about having a head full of Shi'van that sometimes drove people to drinking. Worse off, of course, was the dancer herself – she had her head full of her troublesome self at all times and currently, in the more shadowy corners of Lith My'athar streets, she fared no better than Valen. 

Unlike the tiefling, she wasn't at all concerned by the fact that she could've died in Vix'thra's temple. But that very lack of concern was what worried her and that final verbal duel she had wth Valen before coming back into the city only served to fuel her anxiety even further.

And it brought back the memories. She clenched her teeth. Too many memories. Haunting, hurting… killing, from the inside… Again. Building up the pressure, building up the pain ever since… Ever since she saw Eldath Ra'sin again…

She knew she shouldn't let it get to her that much, but she couldn't help it. Almost all of her old wounds got reopened by now, and the blood flow seemed too hard to stop this time. For weeks, she felt herself sinking away. She had spent more then six years of her life forcing herself to stop running away from the world and act as if everything around her was happening to somebody else. And she was doing fine, too …until now. The void was silently calling to her, luring her with promises of sheltering numbness. She fought it. It was just an easy way out, and not the one she was willing to take… again.

She had to see Deekin. She had to!

The only comfort she had left now were Karandras and Deekin, and she dared not summon the shadow wolf just yet, for he still needed time to recover from his clash with the shadowmaster and… Shi'van stopped abruptly, both her feet and her thoughts alike. Her feet, for she was close to the Forge now, and not wanting to be seen, she needed a moment to scan the area in front of her before proceeding any further. And her thoughts, for they were just about to rush back into Vix'thra's temple and give her the full view of the whole shadowmaster episode. An episode she preferred not to think about. Not ever! Or, at least, not yet.

Taking another moment to force her breathing even, she carefully picked the most shadowy route to the Forge, where a new pair of blades was waiting for her.

Get blades, see Deekin, get roaring drunk – Sounded like a good plan to her.

* * *

**Meanwhile, House Maeviir…**

Zesyyr stormed through the corridors causing a wave of stumbling and ducking every step of the way, the commoners of the House all too eager not to cach her eye.

"_By the blood of L'loth!_" she seethed, gripping the handle of her whip tightly. The Elistraee commander was back! Alive! And as if that wasn't enough, she was apparently among the last ones to learn about it! She! A Matron Mother! Such embarrassment was not something a Matron Mother would ever take lightly. She clenched her fists. Gulthrys was supposed to keep her informed of everything that went on in that trice-damned temple filled with surface-lovers and their Seer bitch. "_And he_," Zesyyr growled silently, "…_didn't perform his duty_." Well, he should've known better.

**...X**

Naturally enough, when the door to his room bursted open, two eager-looking guards standing in them, Gulthrys instantly suspected he was in trouble. While the guards were, rather unceremoniously, escorting him into the Matron's throne room, his anxiety only grew.

And the moment he finaly entered the throne room, an insanely furious Matron Mother standing in there, her whip uncoiled and ready, Gulthrys became one very unhappy wizard.

* * *

Much to his dismay, Kimmuriel missed the trio's (plus one) arrival in the courtyard, due to the fact that he was just about to make his presence known to the Seer at last. His attempt, however, was botched by a sudden arrival of an excited temple guard – a guard in whose mind the psionic read the news she bore before the first sentence even begun to take form in her conscious mind, let alone pass her lips. 

Muttering curses under his breath, Kimmuriel was just about to leave for the courtyard himself, when another drow pushed the temple doors open and stepped through, somewhat confused astral deva following close behind.

That was about two hours ago. Knowing Imloth by reputation (and remembering him faintly as one of the Melee Magthere Masters, very long time ago), Kimmuriel listened closely to the report the Elistraee general gave to the Seer. After all, while he did know the trio had been in Drearing's Deep, Kimmuriel still had no way of knowing in detail just what exactly happened there – something this eavesdropping (and slight mind scanning) session easily made up for.

**...X**

The Seer looked at Imloth wearily. A dracolich eliminated, an astral deva added to the defending forces, the Valsharess's allies all gone… Good news, all of them. And yet, at what price? Valen, completely out of sorts; Tarnash, as unreliable as ever; Nathyrra and her headaches (That foolish girl! She never even planned to tell her about them! Hadn't she almost fainted in the middle of the temple the other day, the Seer would never even know!); Rizolvir, pushed to the very limits of endurance and hardly getting any sleep at all. A shadowdancer… as helpful as she was damaging to the rebel forces… And a presence – an ever-growing presence in the darkness… The Masked God, prowling the streets of Lith My'athar.

But that must wait, the Seer decided. Right now, one problem above all others demanded her attention: Matron Zesyyr! There was no doubt in Seer's mind that the volatile Matron is fuming for all she's worth at the news of Imloth's comeback from the dead, and having more trouble from Zessyr was something the rebels could not afford! And so…

"_We must put her mind at ease, Imloth,_" she said. The drow smirked.

"_Suck-up, you mean?_" he asked wryly.

The Seer twitched at his choice of words, but let it pass. Blunt as he put it, 'sucking-up' was precicel;y what they had to do.

"_Y… Yes. That's what I mean._"

"_What will you say to her, then?_" Imloth asked.

The Seer pondered the question for a moment. "_Hmmm.. Let's see… _" she quickly played out all the possible scenarios in her mind. "_We shall tell her that Shi'van used her wand on you without ever consulting the rest of us._"

Imloth nodded. Zesyyr already hated the shadowdancer – Giving her an additional reason to do so could hardly make things much worse.

"_And then, we didn't know if you would make it out of Drearing's Deep alive, thus there was no reason to bother her with such irrelevant matters as the life of one single male. And of course, Tarnash will remain the prime leader of our combined forces – You will just serve as an addition, aiding the efficiency on the command chain._"

Imloth grinned. Surely, such a lame story wouldn't fool the Matron. However, same stories could sound as lame as reasonable, depending on how careful one chooses the words to tell them. And the Seer had a way with words.

"_Shall we be off then?_"

"_Yes,_" the Seer nodded, "_The sooner we get that over and done with, the better._"

**...X**

Smirking to himself, Kimmuriel leaned back more comfortably and closed his eyes, letting his mind wonder. Soon enough, he touched the mind of Zesyyr's personal bodyguard and settled inside it. The tiefling and the tu'rilthiir female can wait a while longer, he decided, and this Seer-Maeviir exchange will surely be worth watching. That, and seeing this Seer in actual action would no doubt give him an additional edge in their oncoming meeting tonight.

* * *

Shi'van gripped the door frame tightly and did her best not to let her shock become too apparent. Having seen more than three decades of life still wasn't enough to prepare her for the scene she just bumped into – Kobold courting! 

Contrary to what the Seer believed, what went on in Deekin's room most of the time didn't have anything to do with naked kobolds whatsoever. It did, however, involve one very timid, shy and all together confused kobold bard trying his best to impress a mute and equally confused kobold female. Currently, his attempts involved reading her passages from his not-so-often shown around book of poems, trying to teach her the basics of the sign language, attempting to sit close, yet not-so-close to her and, above all, pondering how does one, in lack of real flowers, go about making a bouquet out of mushrooms.

Too petrified by the sight, Shi'van just stared at the two in absolute silence.

"_Errr… Boss, this be Neeva,_" Deekin chirped. "_Neeva, this be Boss. Deekin tells you about boss, right? Boss be the one who teaches Deekin this hand signs, you knows. Perhaps Boss finds time to teach Neva some more too?_" he blurted while casting said 'boss' a pleading look.

"_Uhm… Yes. Yes, I will. Only not now…_" the still transfixed Shi'van managed to mutter. Deekin blinked and cocked his head.

"_Umm… You wanted Deekin, boss? Neeva won't mind if Deekin leaves her for a while… Woulds you?_" he added, looking at the grey-scaled female with concern in his eyes.

"_No need, Deekin. I.. just stopped by to say hi, that's all,_" lied the dancer and, before either of the kobolds managed to say (or signal) anything, she slipped out of the room closing the doors behind her.

**...X**

Deekin courting! It was so… So… Well, it was so natural, it was stunning. After all, why wouldn't he? Maybe it's just that she never ever imagined the little kobold in such a situation before. A situation he was apparently only begining to fathom. And a situation he wouldn't want to be disturbed in. So who was she to drag him away from it? After all, Shi'van realized, all she wanted to do was to burden the miniature bard with a whole sack of her own problems, and that, in hindsight, was as selfish a thing as she could possibly do. She never cared much about anyone. Deekin, however, was an exception to that rule. If he wanted time with one of his own kin (and it was painfully obvious that he did), then she wouldn't rob him of it just so that she herself could get her mind off of things.

Besides, getting her mind off of things was being accomplished just as nicely by taking swig after deep swig from that bottle she was holding. There was only one thing about it – with every next swig she took, a certain metallic-sounding voice from the scabbard she was holding became harder and harder to shut off. Perhaps, she mused, she should finaly do something about it. Before drinking herself completely sensless, that is.

**...X**

Deekin looked at Neeva and sighed, truly grateful for being allowed to stay in the grey-scaled female's company after all, but also deeply concerned about his 'boss' and her current state of mind. Or, better yet, the lack of it. His mind raced back to that day in the desert.

Only few short years have passed since that day, but to Deekin, it seemed like a lifetime ago. That day, when the 'boss' told him why she hated the desert so much. She looked like this that day, he remembered. And he liked it back then no more than he liked it now. And it worried him. More than he could possibly tell.

* * *

Around the same time that Kimmuriel unobtrusively observed the events in House Maeviir, and Shi'van, upon witnessing the splendor of kobold courtship, decided that another bottle was in order… fast… one tiefling was making an attempt to sort some things out. With himself. Unfortunately, without too much success. Yet. 

Valen made his way through the streets slowly, his feet still shaky beneath him and his chest hurting profoundly. With the final battle so close at hand, the defenders simply couldn't afford to waste any more healing potions then absolutely necessary. And even if they could, healing potions and magic were never much of a painkiller.

Still, the pain was the least of his worries as he meandered pointlessly through the streets, bottle in hand and secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of a familiar shadow somewhere along the way, and, at the same time, hoping he wouldn't.

And he wondered why…

His tail twitched at a vivid memory coming suddenly into his mind – a memory of a dark, blurry shape flying straight over his head and, barely an instant later, slamming a sword hilt into his hand.

And he wondered why…

His fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned wight as, unstoppable as an avalanche, the whole episode in Vix'thra's temple played out in his mind. Everything he had said… everything he heard her say in turn.

And he wondered why…

He had no answers. Not consciously at least. But deep inside, at the very edge of his mind, his answer was already there. Not that he could reach it though. Not right now. Right now, he couldn't even think straight. It was all still too fresh… and too intense.

There is only so much one can take, only so much to be swallowed at once. And when it all piles up and comes crumbling down on one's head… there is nothing left to be done about it save to step back and let It fall, and then curl up and give it some time, and wait for the dust to settle down.

* * *

Meanwhile, in house Maeviir, one wizard missed out the meeting between his Matron and Imloth and the Seer entirely. But he at least came back to his senses. 

As he finaly regained his consciousness, Gulthrys realized that, at least, he was still in his own room. Which was quite preferable to being chained in the dungeon below. But it hardly made him feel much better. His bleeding, torn back even less. Moaning quietly with every movement he made, the wizard somehow got up on his knees and, after some searching (and cursing his habit of keeping his room in such a chaotic state) eventually managed to find several healing potions he had in stash. But while those helped mend his wounds a bit, his mood grew ever darker as he threw himself on the bed and spent the remainder of the day imagining a variety of impressively gruesome deaths he'd like to see his Matron die.

The last thing he needed that evening was Tarnash paying him a 'friendly' visit late into the night. Unfortunately for the wizard, this just wasn't his day, and a visit from Tarnash was exactly what he would get.

* * *

**Alley near the training grounds…**

("_Hey! What do you think you're… ! _")

"_Clam it!_"

A sudden hiss from the shadows to his right made Tarnash jump back, both swords drawn. As soon as it left its scabbard, his right blade slashed down in a cross-strike, his left pulled slightly backwards and to the side, ready to follow with a downward thrust. With a screech of steel, a red-glowing blade intercepted his sword, followed by the diagonal parry which sent his sword sliding down and to the side. Quicker then a thought, he pulled back his blade, at the same time stepping back so to present a smaller target for a riposte that, he was certain, was about to follow the parry. His left sword hissed as it thrust down and - stopped short, barely an inch before Shi'van's unblinking eyes.

For several moments, the two stood perfectly still, frozen, their gazes locked over a blade… A blade that, had Tarnash been but a tad bit less disciplined a warrior, would've spelled the shadowdancer's death. The weapon master's eyes narrowed dangerously, his anger rising in the face of such foolishness. For Vhaeraun's sake, the damn_ jalil_ didn't even try to dodge his attack!

"_Wael,_" he hissed, "_I could've killed you._" Shi'van never even flinched.

"_Next time,_" her voice was plain and flat, "_you might try with this._" She flipped the sword in her hand, presenting it hilt-first.

The moment she did that, Tarnash's blades were already up and in position to block. One didn't get to be a drow weapon master by not being alert and ready at all times, even while asleep. He already made the mistake of letting his guard down once – He wasn't about to let it happen again. And besides, this female gave him the creeps.

("_Wait a minute! You can't just… ! _")

"_Clam it!_"

The shadowdancer's repeated growl puzzled Tarnash even more then the lack of any attack coming his way.

"_What?_"

"_Not you,_" Shi'van said, looking down at the protesting Enserrick "_Him._" She offered Tarnash the hilt "_Fuckin' blabbermouth… ("I beg your pardon!"_)… _but fuckin' useful… ("Why, I've never…!" )…_"

Tarnash blinked. "_You…_" he simply couldn't believe this, "_You're… giving me… Your sword!_"

"_Or selling it to RIzolvir._" she answered with a shrug. "_No strings attached, Tarnash._" she added, perfectly guessing down which road the weapon master's thoughts were headed right now. Not that one needed Deekin's perceptiveness for that – Tarnash's untrusting eyes spoke his thoughts quite clearly.

"_Why?_" he asked, the tone of his voice only underlining his distrust further. An afterthought hit him. "_And what will you wield?_"

For the first time since her return from Drearing's Deep, a hint of a grin appeared on Shi'van's face as she let her gaze slip down on her hips where a pair of curved blades rested comfortably. "_These._" She looked back at Tarnash "_I always preferred sabers anyway._"

Tarnash didn't argue with that. Only once had he actually seen her fight. It was way back then, when she fought Zesyyr and he and Gulthrys observed it. And even that was blurry, as images in the scrying ball generally tend to be. But what little he saw of her fighting style always hinted at the fact that she was more used to wielding curved blades. A curved blade to be more precise. She was obviously right handed and not ambidextrous. It must be that, through years of practice, she achieved the level of ambidexterity needed to wield two same-sized long blades (and it was a feat very, very few could manage), but in the beginning, she was most likely wielding just one. Not that any of it showed any more, at least not to a casual observer, not even if it was a skilled warrior. To a weapon master however… it was as obvious as an enraged female in a cold cavern.

"_…or not?_"

Her voice dragged him back from his contemplation. He looked at the offered weapon again. What the hell was she up to now? Even if she was more accustomed to sabers, this sword of hers was still too good for anyone to discard so lightly. If nothing else, it had that vampiric-like enchantment that could heal its wielder in the middle of combat – as useful a thing as he ever came across. So why give it away? Once again, her voice intercepted his line of thoughts.

"_Fine. I'll take it to Rizolvir then._"

"_Wait! _" Tarnash was quick to say before she could go and do exactly that. "_What's the catch here? Why would you give up…_"

"_Because I have another one now._" she answered, once again guessing at his thoughts. He narrowed his eyes. "_I had Rizolvir imbue the same life-stealing enchantment in a saber for me. He's been at it ever since I first got here. _" she explained. "_And now,_" she added sternly "_do you want this thing, _(the scream of "_I am not a thing!"_ rang out in her head, but she ignored it completely ) …_or not?_"

Tarnash still had his doubts about all this, but the temptation was too great to resist. He reached for Enserrick's hilt.

"_Yes._"

"_Great. Take it then already. I've a whole chorus in my head as it is – I really don't need a dead wizard adding to it… and off-key at that._"

Chorus? …Voices? …Dead wizard! What in the world did she mean by…? But by then, he already had Enserrick's hilt in his hand.

("_That ungrateful, little… After all this time of…_")

Damn! He knew there was a catch!

Only slightly swaying on her feet, Shi'van started down the alley, her two new blades, Oloth and Charr, resting in their scabbards… and a bottle of strong liquor firmly in her hand.

("_I, Enserrick the Grey, to be wielded by a drow… All those years in the Undermountain… Like a common piece of beaten metal…_") Tarnash ground his teeth audibly and called after her.

"_Celebrating for finally getting rid of this?_" _( "This? I am not a… ") _

She shook her head. "_No. I'm just trying to get drunk._"

Tarnash cocked his head in puzzlement. "_Whatever for?_"

Slowly, Shi'van turned her head and gave him a look one usually gets when asking a perfectly idiotic question.

" '_Cause it sure as hell beats being sober..._"

* * *

**The Forge…**

"_Imloth!_" Nathyrra gave the somewhat surprised drow a big hug. She practically hadn't seen him since the day he was resurrected and she simply couldn't restrain herself. Imloth returned the hug wincing slightly. For the second time that day, he was reminded that the fight with the dracolich was barely a day behind him - All of his wounds still hurt like hell.

Rizolvir grinned. "_Admit it, you old rothe – You came back from the dead only to keep making me jealous!_"

Nathyrra arched an eyebrow at her lover. Imloth wrapped his arm around her waist familiarly and gave Rizolvir a sly smirk.

"_It seems you are the rothe here, Rizolvir._" He taunted, drawing a chuckle from Nathyrra.

Rizolvir cocked his head, snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. Ginning, Imloth let go of Nathyrra and started towards him, spreading his arms widely.

"_There, there. Don't be jealous. Here, I'll give you a hug, too._"

Rizolvir's eyes went wide and he took a step back. Nathyrra burst into laughter. Imloth patted her on the shoulder.

"_Well, I'll leave you two lovebirds alone now._"

"_Training grounds?_" RIzolvir sounded slightly concerned. Imloth nodded.

"_Watch your back Imloth._" Nathyrra said seriously. "_Whatever little lies you and the Seer have told Zesyyr, she still labeled you a legitimate prey for her assassins._"

Imloth just grinned. Yes, he knew he was a target. But he also knew that none other than Tarnash would be watching his back. Should anything happen to him now, Tarnash would lose every chance he had of gaining the Seer's aid, so it would be in his best interest to keep Imloth alive and well. The thought of having his ex-would-be killer guarding him was rather ironic… and also rather amusing. Still grinning, Imloth made his way to the training grounds.

He didn't see Tarnash there, however. At least, not right away…

* * *

After Imloth left, Nathyrra turned to Rizolvir. 

"_I hear you made a magnificent set of blades recently…_"

Rizolvir grinned proudly, not even bothering to ask how did Nathyrra know about it.

"_That I did… And might I add it's among the finest of my work. Well payed too._"

"_Yes,_" Nathyrra said somewhat sourly, "_I never doubted the depth of her purse…_"

Rizolvir turned to regard Nathyrra more closely. Obviously, she was still slightly bitter about Shi'van bringing Tarnash and not Imloth back… though, they all knew (or at least guessed) who really inspired Tarnash to bully Gulthrys into finding another resurrection scroll. When he mentioned it casually to Shi'van early this morning she just snorted and grumbled something about Tarnash being perfectly able to whipe his own ass, tie his own shoe-laces and come up with a decent plan on his own without anyone's help. And that was as close to addmiting the deed as he had ever heard. Chuckling at the memory, he shook his head and hugged Nathyrra lovingly.

"_And why might that be? Of course, they did just loot a dragon hoard, but I was payed for this job well in advance, you know._"

Nathyrra snorted. "_She was loaded even when I first met her... I wonder just how much gold can that bag of hers hold._"

"_Enough to pay me at least,_" chuckled Rizolvir "_And I, my dear, don't come cheap,_" he added playfully and got rewarded by a small chuckle from Nathyrra. "_Funny, that - You were scouting the Valsharess forces in the Undermountain and I know that the rivvin sent… 'heroes' of their own to scout the place too, but still… Surely, our little 'hero' isn't the type to rush off into some world-saving-dark-forces-slaying business…_"

"…_Unless there's a fixed price attached to it._" Nathyrra finished. "_According to her, she had 'one hundred thousand golden reasons' to go there._"

"_Guess all this wasn't included in that contract._" Rizolvir mused "_Perhaps she'll ask for a bonus once she gets back._"

Nathyrra looked at him seriously "_You are truly that confident in our victory?_"

"_Not really,_" he shrugged, "_but I am damn sure that, even if no one else makes it, Shi'van will still find the way to walk out of here with her head still attached._"

"_Walk out of here and walk out on us,_" Nathyrra mumbled grimly "_In fact, she'd be out of here months ago if it weren't for that geas on her._"

"_And can you really blame her?_"

Nathyrra pondered the question for a while. "_No, not really,_" she decided at length "_She's been among the drow before… She's been to Menzoberanzzan even…_" Rizolvir's eyebrows raised at this, "…_And I don't think that she would count that among the best experiences she's ever had. Though, given all she's done so far, I dare say Menzoberanzzan did rub off on her quite a bit…_"

"_Yeah… I suppose it did._"

And in Rizolvir's opinion, that wasn't such a bad thing either. He really liked the shadowdancer, and not only because she was such a good paying customer. He liked the way her mind worked too. Sometimes she could be so delightfully cunning and the consequences of her actions even more so. Unlike Nathyrra, and the best part of the Seer's followers, Rizolvir didn't mind the presence of the Masked God at all. He welcomed it actually. And why wouldn't he? After all, even if he did choose to stay with the Seer and her people… he too was a follower of Vhaeraun.

And there was yet another thing the master craftsman knew. Or thought he knew, at least. And that made this whole Vhaeraun situation even more amusing. Ever since he got the order for those sabres (which happened barely a week after the dancer's arrival here), the very idea of tarnished, dark blades seemed awfully familiar to him. A native of Ched Nasad, Rizolvir had his suspicions about the dancer and her true origins from the very beginning – suspicions that led his mind straight back into a certain House one of whose commoners he once knew. That one too used such weapons. And Rizolvir himself was the one who darkened the blades when said commoner prepared himself to leave for the Night Above.

'Darkblade' indeed…

* * *

**Meanwhile, alley near the training grounds…**

As the shadowdancer disappeared from his sight, Tarnash blew a few loose strands of hair off of his face absentmindedly weighting Enserrick in his hand. It was a fine blade, keen-edged and perfectly balanced. Also, he noted, it was lighter than longswords usually are ("_And a whole lot brighter, too.._"). Might take him some time to get used to it, but… ("_I most certainly expect to be wielded properly! _") …On the second thought, make that a lot of time.

Barely giving it a conscious thought, Tarnash swiftly put Ensserick through few quick routine sweeps ("_…your upwards slash is entirely too wide…_") measuring it against his own swords ("_…low parry way too close…_") his other hand lingering indecisively over his sword belts ("…your elbow at a completely wrong angle…") trying to decide which one to discard and… ("_…and your riposte absolutely horrible! _") … All right, that does it!

With a hiss, his right-hand sword left it's scabbard. In the same fluid movement, he reversed his grip on Enserrick's hilt, sliding the blabbing sword in it's place ("_Thank the gods! Have you any idea how …_") and keeping his left-hand sword, Shebali ("_…sweaty your palms are?_") as his primary weapon ("**_WHAT?_** ").

All out of sudden, Tarnash's head felt not entirely unlike a gong.

( "_An off-hand weapon?_ _Me! _" )

Slowly, still holding Ensserick's hilt, he looked down at the sword in his grasp.

"_Enserrick, right?_" His voice was strangely calm and composed.

("_Yes?_")

"_Clam it._"

* * *

As the day was nearing its end, Imloth, having spent some quality time at the training grounds, withdrew into his own quarters to get some much-needed rest; Shi'van summoned Karandras after all but soon enough, as her mood grew darker (and somewhat drunker) let the shadow wolf prowl on his own while she resumed testing the limits of her alcohol tolerance alone; Valen, having just a single bottle for company and thus not getting nearly as drunk, just kept wondering the streets in silence, never even noticing when his feet took him to the banks of the Dark River; Rizolvir closed up for the night and retired into his own chambers to spend the night in the lovely company of Nathyrra and Nathyrra's headache. 

Meanwhile, Deekin returned to the temple to resume his globe-enchanting duties, wherem, inbeknownst to him, he was closely observed by a certain psionic who, deciding that scanning the mind of a drunk shadowdancer or a frustrated tiefling was not very prudent, was now patiently waiting for the opportune moment to introduce himself to the Seer at last.

**...X**

Lavoera had a wide smile on her face. It was something that came naturaly to her, and the sight of a little winged kobold busily fluttering around, strumming his lute and mumbling something that, with some effort, could be called singing made her smile even wider. Somehow, his appearance made every situation less grim.

Yes, Deekin was a magnificent creature indeed and now, Lavoera couldn't help but wonder what in the name of Elysium was such a bright and a clearly good person doing with that… that… that shadow-dancing creature? No matter how hard she tried to suppress it, Lavoera couldn't help but feel a great resentment towards that one. And after all she heard her saying about her, after the way she treated her from the very beginning, who could blame her? She was rude, she was wicked, she was… she was everything she shouldn't have been and certainly not the kind of company Lavoera would ever expect someone like Deekin to keep. But keep it he did. He even called her "boss"! First time she heard him say that, Lavoera immediately cast a detection spell, thinking that the dark one had put some charm or a binding spell on Deekin. But, to her ultimate surprise, there was no spell there.

Still, that wasn't the first surprising thing she came across since she came to this Prime. First of all, she was really surprised when a pack of elder vampires ambushed her no sooner then she arrived. And then, she was even more surprised when she learned why those foul creatures needed her. And finally, the "rescuing party" that came to her aid must've been the strangest one any deva had ever had. And, most definitely, a surprise. A shudder went through her wings as she thought of it, sending few white feathers flying.

"_You be all rights?_" Deekin asked. There was an honest concern in his voice. Lavoera smiled gently.

"_Yes, I'm all right, Deekin._"

The kobold's eyes shone brightly, his muzzle spreading into something that Lavoera preferred to think of as a smile rather then a grin.

"_Can Deekin have one of these to write with, then?_" He asked as he scooped up one of the feathers. "_Deekin thinks he write better with angel wings. Deekin writes your story to be real angelic._"

Lavoera laughed. "_Of course you can have it. I'd be honored to have such a famous and talented bard writing with one of my feathers._"

The sight of Deekin nearly toppling over under the weight of so many compliments in a single sentence made her laugh again. But then a thought came to her: What would his 'boss' do if she ever wanted one of her feathers? "_She'd sneak up to me and just pluck it, that's what,_" she thought sourly, "_And it's not like she didn't state times and again already that she consideres me nothing more then pillow stuffing anyway._" By Elisium! How could the Seer ever allow one such as her to even approach her, let alone anything else! By the Light, even a tiefling coming to her rescue wasn't that much out of mind as this!

And then her thoughts wondered off in his direction. Never did she expect to see anything like that – A tiefling on a path of redemption! But she didn't even try to understand any more. This gentle woman, the Seer (Heavens bless her devoted soul) vouched for him. She accepted him, took him in, and even showed him a better way, and if the Seer thought him worthy, then so should she… Well, at least she will try very hard to do so.

But how long would the tiefling remain on the path of redemption if he was almost constantly pushed into the company of the dark one? Lavoera frowned at the thought. Not very long, she suspected and even though the Seer explained her reasons only this morning, Lavoera still had her doubts about all that. True, he might see in her his own dark reflection, but did the Seer perhaps put too much faith in him when she thought it would set him even more firmly on the path of light? Isn't it just as possible that he might give in to the darkness again? With that dark woman around, Lavoera was almost certain that he would… And what a shame and waste that would be.

The Seer observed the two from the side and smiled a small smile. How innocent they both looked, and how happy right now. Pray Ellistraee, let them retain that innocence through the trials to come! And then, she smiled again, this time at the irony of the sight in front of her: There was an astral deva, a mighty celestial creature of goodness and there was a kobold, a small scaly creature from the northern caves, but still, out of the two, it was the kobold who was far more world-wise, the kobold who was more experienced of the two and ultimately, it was the kobold who had much more chances of retaining that childish innocence they were both possessed with.

Her gaze shifted to the deva once more. So powerful, so mighty… and so much like a child. Like a child holding a fireball wand in her hands – Innocent and sweet, unwilling to unleash that power, but possessed of it nevertheless. A child with power to destroy. A child with a fireball wand…

Then again (the Seer's face turned sour at the next thought), in the hands of a true killer, even the power to heal could turn into a weapon of destruction. In the hands of a true killer, even a wand of resurrection turned deadly.

Shaking her head at her own thoughts, the Seermoved to the table where the mirror was. Uttering a soft chant, she gazed into its depths, and her grip on the table immediately tightened as she recognized the western section of the caves she saw. The army of the Valsharess was close. Very close. Three days, five at the best, was all the defenders had now.

Frowning grimly, she dismissed the image and hurried over to the table where the globes lay. Time was short, and the work needed to be done.

**...X**

Much later that night, as she turned startled in the direction of the unfamiliar voice that addressed her, the Seer realized that the first battle she would fight would not be with the Valsharess at all.

"_You might wish to know that Maeviir has betrayed…_"

* * *

_Well, as I said, this is only the first part… Which doesn't mean you should wait for the second one before you review! ;) No, seriously, I am very, very happy by the amount of reviews I've been getting recently and I thank you all! My guess is, if so many of you are reviewing this, then it must be my writing skills are improving… and that is something that makes me very happy indeed. ;)_

_Anyway, this being only the first part of the chapter, there are no "ominous dreams" at the end of it. But there will be more of those – I didn't forget about them._

**Penname wa Silver B:** You already know I'm not quite satisfied with that torture scene, but I'm still glad you liked it. And just to think about what would that scene look like had I read Dark Shadowy prior to writing _that_? But you're right on the spot there – as far as Zesyyr's cruelty goes, you haven't seen nothing yet/evil grin/ And Sinvyl being "lecherous, seductive, covetous, sinister"? Well, while playing the game, I got the impression she _was_ all those things, so…

**Jemime Aslana:** No corrections from you? Whoa! Must be I'm really doing something right then/grin/ Yeah, tour through Lith My'athar where life han't stopped just because _some_ people are not there was the whole idea – Hmmm, wish you said that earlier, then I could've used _that_ as a summary.

**Night Vendiviel:** Ahem! Do I tell you this now, or do I wait a while longer? Ah, guess I won't spoil much by saying it after all: The person Sinvyl was talking to _wasn't_ Big M. I fond the idea of an archduke of hells being imprisoned by a _mere mortal (?)_ utterly ridiculous, so I made some changes there as well. /big grin/ And yes, as ever more enigmas, but this time around also some Valen and Shi'van at last. And seems like I got you hooked on the drow, eh? Good, I like that. ;)

**Wolf-Kin:** Those lines _weren't_ ment to sound like a poem, but there was this soong that just wouldn't leave my head as I was writing them, so… And I'm glad you liked them because they _really_ gave me a hard time. Oh, and the globes? Well, I must point out that that idea came to me way before I read Dragons… Guess we just think alike. ;) On a side note, everybody noticed the implied kobold sex, but hardly anyone paid attention to the globes. Maybe I should've left the kobolds alone after all… And I was really very proud of those globes.. /sigh/

**Lord Onisyr:** Yep, all the different set ups…. Now if I could only find my way through them… ;) But don't worry – whatever happens, rest assured that Vhaeraun _will_ have a role to play.

**R. Madillo:** I _love_ detailed reviews! ;) Answering them can take up much space though… OK, here goes: In most parts of the Underdark, it's Lolth. In some parts, like Menzo for instance, it's L'loth. Bottom line: both are correct. Zesyyr… short-sighted… All right! This does it! Now you put an image of Zes wearing glasses into my head! Aaaargh! ;) Glad you noticed that reflex-to-look thing - I was hoping someone would. And… err.. those sabers were _not_ for Vhaeraun.. but I guess you know that by now. And _do_ devote a char to Vhaeraun – The Masked God definitely deserves it! ;) Anyway, if you need more info on the fellow, just drop me an email and I'll send you few links. And no, I'm definitely not saying whose "dreams" are those. Maybe you're right, maybe you're wrong, but I'm not telling and that's it! ;)

**Euphorbic:** I know no matter how much Kim I put in the story, it'll never be enough. ;) I do hope there's a fair amount of him in this chappie though. As for the rest.. I think we exchanged more than enough emails on the subject, so I think I'll zip it for now. ;)

**zazei:** Answering my reviewers is fun! And I love doing it. /smile/ Aww.. a Lolth-fan, are you? Well, I hope you won't mind a Vhaerunite in me. ;) And anyway, Lolth is missing to begin with, else Sinvyl would never come to power. And way back in time (chapter 2 or 3, I think), after Shi'van offed the previous Matron, Zesyyr is actually quite angry at Shi'van for not being decent enough and dying alongside old Matron. ;) Yeah, it is ironic, but that's the way drow work I suppose.


	25. Back From The Dead part two

**Disclaimer:** All the characters, places and events belong to their creators. Shi'van's mine! And so are the original parts of this story! And if someone wants to sue me for the copyrights, I'll have them know I'm broke, so they won't make any money out of it… at least, no more then I'm making out of this. ;)

Bah, what to say? How 'bout: "Next time I say chapter's coming out soon, _don't_ trust me!"? And I guess the same goes whenever I say "It'll be a short one." OK, a whole bunch of things were kicking in, writer's block not being the least of them. Everything was going nice and smooth, and then all out of sudden I find my own plots overlapping and getting so out of hand my head begun to hurt! What's worse, every time I solved one thing, three more loose ends came sneaking up on me, daggers ready. However, I think I managed to wriggle my way out of most of it, and I sincerely hope this chapter will prove to be worth all the waiting.

A few words on the chapter itself: Very proud of this one! Very, _very_ proud! Gave myself the liberty to extend Valen's story a bit, think I showed stages of drunkenness in Shi'van's case pretty well and also gave one long-neglected character a bit of a spotlight. I refer, of course, to Karandras who is, in this chapter, actively bugging people. ;) But what I'm proud of the most are the drow interactions, namely Kimmuriel-Seer banter. However, since I am the one writing it, of course it sounds OK to me. I would appreciate your thoughts on it greatly.  
Another thing about the chapter: The diapers exchange is _stolen_ directly from The Monkey Island – the coolest point-and-click game ever! The Skullport references are taken from Joseph C. Wolf's Skullport handbook.

Lastly, I'll use this opportunity to say that inspite all the death threats I flung his way, I am _not_ responsible for Shadow's sudden disappearance! Hmmm… or maybe I am? Maybe I bored him to death with this story at last? ;)

Oh, and huge thanks to _Lord Onisyr_, my appointed editor for this chapter.

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 16 **

**Back From The Dead**  
**part two**

**Restless Night**

* * *

**Rothe Pens Guard Post…**

The human squinted, peering beyond the circle of light that the torch on the bracket beside him provided, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to another.

Where the hell was he? What was happening to him? A slave, slave to the duergar, then to the illithids… And now? Rescued by drow! He just couldn't understand it. But then, nothing really made any sense in the past few… Months? Years? How long has it been since he last saw the blessed light of the sun? Centuries? It sure seemed like centuries to him. Centuries, in the darkness.

Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it from all the memories, he squinted again, the surrounding darkness reminding him for the thousand time that this was not his world, not his place… And not his job, he reflected an instant later as the rothe within the pen mooed again. No, guarding the rothe pens was definitely not the duty he fancied much but, apparently, he was stuck with it nevertheless.

A fair-sized herd of rothe which, to him, looked like a curious cross between a yak and a pig, grazed the glowing lichen and fungi. Glowing, just as rothe themselves occasionally glowed. Dim and eerie. Just what he needed to make his bleak mood even bleaker.

For the third time, he squinted and rubbed his eyes tiredly when a sudden commotion within the pen snapped him to attention. A movement somewhere to the left of the gate, just beyond the human's ability to see, made a good two-third of the normally docile beasts start bucking and mooing excitedly. For an instant only, a huge shape, easily the size of the biggest rothe bull in the pen, stepped out of the shadows and into the soft bluish glow of now positively panicked cattle. With a startled yelp, the human jumped back.

"_What're ye about…?_" a scruffy-looking dwarf beside him demanded, his hand already clutching the handle of an old battleaxe.

"_T… The… There…_" stammered the human, pointing a shaky finger in the dark shape's direction.

With a grumble addressed straight into his grizzled, unkempt beard, the dwarf rose to his feet and peered with his one good eye into the darkness. A testy drwarvish curse escaped his throat the instant his one-eyed gaze caught the sight of a pair of yellow-glowing eyes and, more pointedly, a huge grinning muzzle of what appeared to be a rather amused dire shadow wolf.

Amused indeed by all the attention he was suddenly receiving, Karandras focused his gaze on the two humanoids fully and gave them a big wolfish grin, his impressive set on fangs fully on display. The shorter fellow ("Dwarf," was it? Not very tasty kind of a bipedal.), responded with something that, Karandras was certain, wasn't overly complimentary. However, he found that to be far more amusing then offending, so he merely grinned even wider and trotted a few casual steps forward.

The taller guy (a "human". More tasty bipedal… though not nearly as soft and satisfying as, say, an elf.) reached for a shortbow… but sadly was too startled to remember to notch an arrow as well. The shorter, bearded one, planted his feet firmly beneath him and gave his axe what was supposed to be a threatening swing.

Karandras stopped short, pulled his head back and cocked it slightly. Now wasn't that sweet, he chuckled. However, his good-spirited snicker got completely misinterpreted by the bipedal duo in front of him. Shorty gripped his axe even tighter and… Growled? Kar's ears pressed back and close to his head. Now, if that wasn't the most pathetic attempt of a growl he had ever heard! My, but that poor biped soul could really use some tips here.

Being a kind-hearted creature that he was, always willing to help others improve, Karandras coughed once to clear his throat and then, enthusiastically, showed the ignorant biped how growling was really done.

"HMGWT_F…!_" the human stuttered, his shortbow leaving his hands the moment first low tones erupted from the huge beast's throat, his dwarven companion almost losing the grip on his axe as well. Though, in hindsight, the dwarf did prove to be slightly more eloquent as the shadow wolf instructed him in the finer art of low growling.

Karandras gave them both a big smile, having just decided that he likes these two bipeds. They were so sweet. And so funny. And surely, far more amusing then the stupid (yet quite tasty) beasts on the other side of the fence. Why, the only thing his curious sniffing from few moments ago yielded was some mild bucking, even while it did hold a promise of a nice little stampede to follow. Still, amusing as the idea was, Karandras just wasn't in a mood for starting one… Yet. And anyway, who's to say if his mistress would find that stampede to be equally amusing. Once she comes back from her little drinking session, that is. Speaking of which…

Being mentally merged with such a troubled mind was really difficult sometimes, especially lately, as her mood grew even darker and her thoughts more insane by the hour. And when some heavy drinking lands on top of all that… Whoa! You're in for quite an experience then, should you happen to be in Karandras' shoes… errr, paws.

Still, she was fair. Once she begun getting really drunk, she let him go prowl on his own while she went to consume her third (and fourth, and fifth and how many can you count) bottle in the privacy of the Reaper's realm. Generous, really. Getting drunk without even ever licking a drop himself was not the kind of experience Karandras longed for. And she knew that very well, which is why she made it her point to offer him some booze before she left. Truly, a wonderful pack-mate, that girl, more then a decent companion to have around (which is why he chose to stick with her in the first place) and, undeniably, life was never boring beside her. Difficult – yes, but boring…? No way! Just the way Karandras liked it. Though, if she would only sometimes…

/TWANG/

A poorly-shot arrow bouncing off the rock and landing at his front paws snapped Karandras from his contemplations. Lowering his head curiously, he carefully studied the small, pointy object while his nostrils filled with a rapidly increasing smell of sweat and fear emanating from the taller guy. (Not that the short one was much better off, but at least he was hiding it better.) Sparing a moment to consider whether or not he should be insulted by this outburst of completely unprovoked unfriendliness, Karnadras gently picked up the offending projectile into his muzzle, deciding to hold his judgment until he checks if maybe the biped simply made a mistake thinking that shadow wolves might like to play fetch.

Arrow in his jaws and an innocent look in his golden-yellow eyes, the elegant beast merrily trotted up to the, now strangely frozen-looking, bipeds and wagged his tail.

To the best of his deductive abilities, this had a potential to turn into a very amusing night indeed.

* * *

**Courtyard Shadows…**

Numb. That's how she felt – Numb. And given the amount of liquor she just poured into herself, it was about a bloody time too. And she still wasn't drunk properly. High alcohol tolerance… _Thank-you, streets of Calimport and all the years of drinking there. And drugs. Don't forget the drugs. And before that, the snakes, and after the snakes… _But that's another story. Or no. It was not another story! It was her story.

But she didn't want to think about it. She didn't want to remember. Sadly, her memories didn't give a rat's ass about what she wanted or not, and surfaced regardless.

_Guess the saying is right after all_ – "That which doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger." She snickered at the notion. "_In my case,_" she mumbled, "_it's more like what did kill you…_"_ And made you numb._

Numbness… Tips of the fingers, losing their touch; head, feeling as if it was going to float off and away; reflexes, slow… Should anyone wish to kill her, now would be the perfect time to strike. _Or would it_? She took another swig. _No, not yet. Still not drunk enough to be taken down so easily._ So no, the question wasn't could she defend herself now – the real question was would she. Would she have the will to do so? Or a reason? Any reason at all?

It wasn't the numbness of the body. It was the numbness of the soul. And that numbness grew, regardless of any drink, of any poison she (or anyone else) might choose to stuff her with. The soul was long poisoned already. Poisoned, with ashes.

_Damn you, tiefling! And you too, Imloth, you damnable bastard! And you, Halaster, you crazy old fuck! Damn you, above all others, you nutcase… You… You…You know what?_" she said, addressing the image of the wizard of the Undermountain in her mind's eye, "_As one insane Bleaker-case to another – Fuck you!_"

She downed the last drops of her liquor and corked open another bottle. She hardly noticed when it became half-empty. Or half-full, as some would say. To her, it was half-empty, with a prospect of becoming completely empty real soon. Empty… Like her.

And just when she was starting to get better again. Just as she was about to give life another shot…

Which one was it? Second? Third? Yes, third. _Those few moments between coming out of the womb and having a knife across the throat can hardly count, can they now?_ She rubbed her neck absentmindedly and gripped the bottle tighter. So third it was then. Three lives… Three deaths. Violent. Every time. And still, her body just kept moving on. But what of the soul? Or the mind? …Or the heart? Provided she even had any of the three.

Drogan… Yes, those were the good times. The quiet times. Or maybe not all that quiet, but still, times of peace. Times of calm, of mending, of healing… of restoring… Times of certainty. Of sanity. Or whatever was left of it anyway. Hells, even with that stupid little paladin around, it was still all well and good. Six years… And now it was all gone. Shattered. Crumbled. Again. As ever.

But she healed. She survived. It didn't break her. Not completely. And she put it behind, all of it, and was ready to start anew. A new life. A new… hope? Was it hope? No, no it couldn't have been hope. Hope is for fools. A new chance then? Yes, a chance. Fought for and seized as a prize. A chance for a new life. A fresh start. In Sigil. It would've been so good… had it ever happened. Only it didn't. Lured by the promise of easy cash, she ended up here instead – Deep down in the darkness where the Fate, that fickle bitch, replayed the history for her… Again!

Sinvyl… The attack… Destruction… Death. Then slavery… Again. Different masters, same game. And dead, once more. Dead.

She clutched the dagger tightly, a shaky hand not quite able to press the bottle to the lips, as the assault of memories and mixed emotions rushed through her head.

Anger… Pain… Fear…

Her father… The traitor… The attack…

One night, one single furious night… But disasters hardly ever take longer than that.

And now? Here and now? It was happening again, all over again – a small band of drow, various rag-tags in tow, and Sinvyl, coming in for a kill.

_Fuck!_ She slammed the bottle hard on the ground. And then, suddenly, grinned - A sick little grin, straight out of the lands of insanity and onto her liquor-wetted lips. Yes, the void was strong inside her. But so was the anger. Not as strong, but still there… Still enough. For now. That should keep her going a while longer. That, and the pain…

Funny that, that pain thing. First you hate it, then you try running away from it and then, after you succeed in escaping, you find yourself so far away that the very same pain you ran away from now became the only thing that can pull you back. Weird. But true. Not even Drogan could explain it fully. A paradox. A loop… A double-bladed weapon, just like everything else. Run from the pain, enter the state worse than pain. That which doesn't kill you…

Oh, to hell with it all! And to hell with them all, the damned wizard and the bloody tiefling first… Though, in hindsight, the tiefling's likely been there already. Well, may he go there again! He was the one who brought it all up, he was the one who pried and poked… he was the one who made her remember… who helped push her over the edge… into emptiness. And according to Karandras, right now, he too was drinking, somewhere near the river bank. And likely doing a bit better job of it then she did – For all his size and constitution, she was certain she could still drink him under the table any ol' day. "_After all, I'm a 'professional'_," she thought dryly. Her bladder capacity might be a bit wanting compared to his, though… Bah! Whatever! May he pee himself!

And with that final image of a a certain tiefling wetting his pants, Shi'van activated the relic and stepped through the binding, her drunken mind vaguely realizing that, should she stay here a while longer, someone might as well trip on her… and that would not be pretty, for either of the parties involved.

* * *

**Dark River Dock…**

"_I hope he gets back in time,_" Rizolvir mumbled leaning back on the fence and staring at the empty dock. For a while, the Dark River's gurgling was all he heard until at length, Valen spoke.

"_Don't trust a __marraenoloth, Rizolvir. Never. Even if he is an outcast… which, by the way, I doubt._"

"_A what-loth?_"

"_Marraenoloth. A yugoloth… Boatmen of the Dark River…_" the tiefling's voice trailed off.

Rizolvir looked at him, completely puzzled. Did the tiefling perhaps forget that he was surrounded by drow and not planars? What in the name of Vhaeraun was a "yugoloth"? And what's with those… whatever they were, and the Dark River? He was about to ask, but one look at the tiefling made him change his mind. Valen leaned heavily on the fence (which in turn squeaked dangerously) and stared at the river so intently that Rizolvir doubted his question would even be heard, let alone answered.

Shaking his head, he left Valen to his thoughts and strolled back to the forge to join Nathyrra again. Whatever Cavallas was, he just hoped he'll be back in time with that final shipment of fire bombs.

Back on the dock, a lone tiefling still stared at the Dark River… but not at the one that splashed and gurgled in front of him. He stared at another river, ironically enough, one of the very same name, that flowed through the places he'd rather forget. He stared back at the river Styx. The more he stared, more memories came back to him. And more he tried to push them back, the more persistent they became.

The splashing of dark waves echoing through the vastness of Outlands, the growling of fiends on the deck, the screams of slaves from below… and a silent, cloaked figure at the mast, effortlessly navigating the treacherous currents, calm and undisturbed, bringing the disorderly lot to their destination… to yet another battlefield. Valen's tail stiffened. How many times had he seen that scene? How many times was he aboard those vessels of death? Too many. He still remembered clearly the first time he sailed the Styx. …His first battle.

He wasn't older then maybe fifteen… and he was scared. His mentor, an older tiefling and a veteran of these trips, stood beside him, grinning in anticipation. He paid his young student's trembling no heed at all. Was it because he saw so many feeling the same before their first (and most often last) big battle or was it that he simply didn't care, Valen didn't know, but he did know that showing his fear too openly would do him no good – not in the battle and not before the battle either, should his mentor happen to pay some attention after all. Jha'naif was not known for his kindness… or patience. He was as fine a mentor as one could wish for as far as fine arts of combat went, but his methods of teaching and installing discipline in his students often had quite lethal consequences. At that point in time, Valen was one of the three that survived this far. After the battle, he was the only one which, he recalled, surprised both him and Jha'naif more then a little. Back then, Valen still didn't grow into his full size and coming from the streets of Sigil where he, like countless others, led the life of a small-time rogue left him pretty skinny and not terribly strong. Hard to believe that now, but back then, Valen was the smallest and the weakest of the three. But as the years went by, that too has changed. In just a few years, Valen grew both in strength and size, even above Jha'naif himself. And Jha'naif wasn't, by any measures, of small stature. But more then in size, Valen grew in power. And with him grew his battle lust. …And cruelty. And rage.

At twenty-odd, he was no longer a small, frightened boy clinging tightly to the ship's fence and staring in amazement at the dark waters beneath him. No, he was standing upright on the ship's deck, flexing his now-broad shoulders and casting an occasional glance at few youngsters who stared at the river, hoping to catch them letting their fear show so that he can give them a hard smack or two… or maybe even toss one overboard if the mood hits him. Later that day, his flail sticky with ooze and gore of his fallen enemies, he walked over their mutilated corpses on his way back to tanar'ri encampment, his only regret being the lack of more creatures to slay that day. Yes, at twenty-odd, Valen had grown into a true abyssal warrior – enduring, powerful, unruly and blood-thirsty beyond measure, just the way his master wanted him to be. And pleasing his master was all that mattered to him then. A pleased master rewarded his servants well.

Valen's hands bled as he clenched the dock fence so hard one of the bars snapped in two, the splinters stabbing into his palms. He looked down and shook his head, wiping the bloodied palm on his vest absentmindedly.

Why was he remembering all that? Why now? …Why at all? The river had been here all along, ever since he first came here, leading the rebels' retreat, and it never bothered him before. So why now?

"_Shi'van,_" he muttered, realizing the true source of this sudden memory flood. Or no. Not the source – the cause! There was a profound difference. Shi'van was what caused it, her and that last… "talk" he had with her, but the source, the reason behind all this was himself – his own very self; his frustrations, fears and doubts; things that were piling up inside him for a long time indeed; things, that he refused to recognize even existed… or, to be more precise, existed still.

Blood War… Blood War, with all the carnage and bloodspraying splendor he so reveled in. Blood War, and all the scars it left him with. The sweet taste of blood, the pungent smell of death… And the joy of tasting it. The abyssal warrior, hungry for slaughter and with a heart of a beast.

His muscles tightened at the memories. He breathed in deeply, sucking the air in through his gritted teeth. Heart of a beast… The rage of a monster… A monster, that he strived so hard to get rid of. But a part of him nevertheless.

How do you get rid of something that, in the end, is you? How do you control it? How do you…

His head snapped up, tail stopping in a mid-lash and eyes turning two narrow slits. "Something that is you." Can it be that he had finally admitted that, at least to himself? Admitted that he truly was a raging beast, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it, to control it and to bury it?

No. No! That wasn't right! It can't be right! It was just a matter of control, a matter of how able he was to keep the beast in check, to use its power without letting it rule him.

Only… if his temper-control was any measure of how successful he was, then it might as well be that the beast was ruling him already.

Frustrated, he pushed himself back from the dock fence and slumped down, an almost-empty bottle in his hand giving a sound clank as it hit the ground. He stared at it for a few moments and then flung it with all his strength straight into the river.

Dammit! He wasn't thinking straight. He was drunk. Or semi-drunk. Either way, the liquor wasn't helping him think at all. And there were things he definitely needed to think through and sort out, once and for all.

* * *

**House Maeviir…**

"_Bah!_" A spell book went flying across the room, flipped open in mid-flight, lost a few pages and then crashed into the wall, dangerously near a shelf filled with bottles. Tarnash grinned. The wizard was really upset.

"_What are you smirking at!_" Gulthrys snapped.

Tarnash merely shrugged. Yes, Gulthrys was upset. Very upset. And Tarnash found the sight of usually so smug and self-assured wizard to be a very amusing one. He casually placed his hands on the hilts of his swords… "_…and like I said, being an off-hand weapon in hands of a left-handed fighter is really…_" …and snatched them back instantly. Old habits die hard. However, this old habit of resting his hands on sword hilts will have to die very, very swiftly.

Seeing the Weapon Master wince brought an amused half-smirk on wizard's face. Tarnash narrowed his eyes. Usually, Gulthrys would have at least one poisonous remark flying his way by now. The fact that he barely found the will to smirk told him beyond doubt that things was indeed serious.

"_You should've let the Eilistraee follower rot, damn you! We would've found our way up on our own!_" Gulthrys raged, "_Bah… That's what you get for associating yourself with rivvin… And female at that!_"

"_Half-drow,_" Tarnash corrected him somberly.

"_Whatever!_"

Gulthrys grumbled and then his gaze fell on Tarnash's sword. For a moment, he thought he saw a reddish glint emanating from the blade. Sensing his gaze, Tarnash slowly drew Enserrick (giving the sword a mental note that, should he say but a single word…) and presented it to Gulthrys.

Gulthrys glared at the weapon. "_How…?_" he begun, taken completely off his guard. This was clearly the shadowdancer's weapon…. And one she was known not to ever part with. What did the this bloody fool of a weapon master do now?

"_No, she's not dead if that's what you're asking,_" The Weapon Master chuckled.

Gulthrys raised his eyebrows questioningly, waiting for further explanation.

Tarnash chuckled again, "_She gave it to me._"

The wizard didn't seem convinced.

"_As a present really. …Must be my birthday or something…_" the cocky Weapon Master continued. "_A fine blade, don't you think?_"

Gulthrys stared at him incredulously. Yes, a fine blade all right. And readily recognizable by any and all in Lith My'athar. To flaunt it around so openly was as sure a way to invite trouble as squishing a spider in front of a high priestess' nose! What in the Nine Hells was the Weapon Master thinking? …If he was capable of such a complicated mental process at all. Gulthrys' face contorted in fast-rising anger.

"_Wael!_" he hissed

In an instant, Tarnash had the weapon pressed to wizard's throat. "_Watch your tongue,_" he suggested, "_Lest I take it out._"

Gulthrys' eyes became two slits of wrath as he locked gazes with the Weapon Master. For a moment, he considered reaching for his wand, but the coldness of steel at his throat made him decide against it. "_And how 'bout you try this trick with our respected Matron?_" he snarled.

Tarnash pulled the sword back. "_Soon,_" he promised grimly.

"_Soon,_" grumbled Gulthrys, rubbing his throat, "_But will it be soon enough? Before she kills every last one of us? She's insane!_"

Tarnash shook his head, his long white hair flying over his face. "_Always was. What else is new?_" he smirked

"_You're insane too… _"

Tarnash sighed. "_And so are you for associating with me on this. But that's not really news, is it?_"

Gulthrys mumbled something under his breath and begun tapping his fingers. "_And just how do you plan to explain to Zessyr that you're wielding that iblith's sword and the iblith still draws breath?_"

Tarnash grinned widely. "_That's what I'm here for._"

It took Gulthrys several moments to realize what the Weapon Master had in mind. Shooting Tarnash a particularly sour look, he motioned for him to unsheathe the sword and put it on the table. When Tarnash complied, he began an incantation, carefully tracing the blade's edge with his finger. He grinned slightly when out of the corner of his eye he saw Tarnash griping his other sword, Shebali, tightly. Well, not that he could rightfully blame him for his paranoia. After all, Tarnash was a fighter and although he, as every drow, had some basic knowledge about magic and could probably manage several cantrips himself, he still had no way of knowing wetter the wizard's soft chant will end in an offensive spell or not. And for a brief moment, he considered doing exactly the thing Tarnash feared he might do, but once more, decided against it. No point in slaying him... yet. Not until this whole mess was over anyway. And besides, as powerful as drow wizards were, they still bled much like everyone else (a fact that Gulthrys was reminded of all too keenly yesterday morning – courtesy of Matron Zessyr and her whip). Yes, even wizards were vulnerable sometimes, and at such times it was always prudent to have at least one fighter standing in front. So no, better that he keeps Tarnash as an ally then to add him to an already remarkable collection of stains on his carpet Gulthrys decided and kept his chant low and to the point, casting an elaborate illusion that would alter the sword's looks somewhat and hide it's aura.

Half the way through the spell though, Gulthrys begun to wonder was perhaps Tarnash setting him up …And at his own game at that. Just as he was about to begin the most complicated part of the spell, he thought he heard a faint voice somewhere in the back of his mind. A voice that, to his utter displeasure, obviously had many less-then-complimentary comments about his spell-casting skills. A glance to the side revealed him an all-too-smug look on Tarnash's face. His suspicions rose instantly.

"_I forgot to mention,_" the Weapon Master said with a smirk, "_He's quite chatty for a sword. Ex-wizard, I gather, who got himself stuck in there somehow. I thought you might enjoy some friendly advice while you work… And by the looks of it, I'm guessing he just begun giving you some._"

Though he did hear a story or two about the strange water-dwelling creatures, Gulthrys had never seen a shark in his life, so he couldn't be really sure. But something told him that he just saw how does one look when grinning.

"_You'll pay for this, Tarnash. ...Dearly,_" he promised darkly and went back to his casting, doing his best to ignore the annoying voice in his head.

After several long and, for Gulthrys, quite agonizing minutes, the spell was finished and the sword lying on his table now looked no different then the sword Tarnash previously had. The Weapon Master grinned, satisfied with the result, put Enserrick back into it's scabbard, and gave Gulthrys a friendly pat on the back.

The wizard jumped away and yelped. "_Damn it! Can you be friendly with something else then my whipped back, you fiend?_"

"_Whoops. I forgot._"

"_I didn't,_" the wizard grumbled darkly, his thoughts once more flying back to yesterday morning. He was in a foul mood as it is and Zessyr's face in his mind's eye instantly put him in an even fouler one. Still grumbling, he shook his head and scanned the room, looking for something, anything, to look at so that the image of Zessyr would go away.

His eyes fell on several scrolls lying scattered about. He scanned them angrily, then picked one up and showed it to Tarnash. "_Look at this._"

The Weapon Master cocked his head curiously, though his hand already closed over the hilt once again in case the wizard planned to do something more then just show him the scroll.

"_Finger of Death,_" Gulthrys said. "_And this,_" he flashed another scroll "_Summon Greater Shadow. And this,_" another scroll got shoved into Tarnash's face, "_Hold Monster…_"

Tarnash's patience was waning fast. "_Your point?_"

"_My point?_" Gulthrys pushed the scrolls aside. "_My point is that it's all useless!_"

Tarnash raised an eyebrow. "_Oh?_"

"_Yes! No spell called 'Hold Annoying Monster Of A Weapon Master At Bay' or 'Summon Bloody Shadowdancer When You Really Need One' or 'Finger Of Matron's Death' …Useless I tell you!_"

Tarnash stared at the wizard open-mouthed. A clear mental image of a large thumb squishing Zessyr like a bug sprang into his mind. He burst into laughter.

"_Gulthrys… I knew there was a reason why I always stop myself from killing you._ "

"_Mainly because you'd be dead before you even knew it,_" Gulthrys grumbled a half-hearted threat.

Tarnash leaned on the wall laughing even harder. "_Yes. That must be it._"

"_Oh, great!_" Gulthrys exhaled resignedly, slumping into his chair, "_Dungeon full of his supporters, rest of the House forces' loyalties dwindling and changing faster then the priestesses mood, plans for Matron's downfall ruined, new ones not even beginning to come together and all he does is stand there, laughing like the biggest darthiir idiot! Honestly, Tarnash, sometimes I wonder if you even stopped wearing your diapers yet._"

"_Why? You want to borrow some?_" Tarnash grinned back, ducking away even as the last word left his lips, deftly dodging a random object that predictably went flying his way. Gulthrys could be so amusing when pissed. Still, the Weapon Master decided against provoking the dangerous wizard further. Not only that he needed Gulthrys on his side in the oncoming coup, but also the next thing that will get launched in his direction would very likely be of far more explosive sort then the paper-weight that just made that nice little hole in the wall behind him. Tarnash was pretty sure he wouldn't enjoy spending the rest of his life (which was to say, both seconds) as a living torch before all that's left of him is a lovely pair of smoking boots.

"_Tomorrow evening,_" he said, all traces of mirth gone from his voice at once.

"_And then what?_" the wizard snapped back.

Tarnash clenched his jaw while his gaze begun wondering aimlessly around the room. And then what indeed…

Originally, the plan was simple: Couple of hours before the Valsharess attacks, Shi'van was to kill Zesyyr and drag her body away. Then, he and Gulthrys could swiftly step in, claiming that Matron and few of her closest associates (who Shi'van was also to kill, aided, to some extent, by Gulthrys) lost their nerve and backed out at the last possible moment. It was plausible and believable and the rumors to back it up were already planted, long ago. Rumors that, Tarnash reminded himself sourly, were one of the reasons for the torture chambers being so full lately by the way. Anyway, in such situation, he and Gulthrys would have no problems organizing Maeviir troops under their command, if for no better reason then because they would be the fastest to do so.

Normally, what most of the Maeviir soldiers (him and Gulthrys included) would prefer to do would be to simply back out themselves, leaving Lith My'athar and the Seer's forces to their own doom. After all, who in the sane mind would risk their lives fighting a battle lost in advance and against a foe so clearly superior at that? But trying to escape would undeniably provoke a retaliation from the Seer and her lot, so that idea got discarded very early on. Changing sides, like Zesyyr just did, wasn't an option either – Changing one slavery for another didn't really make much sense, did it now? But bearing in mind that most of the troops wouldn't share such view and would just want to get away from here one way or another, their original plan was made specifically to prevent that from happening: Having Shi'van deal with Zesyyr barely hours before the attack would give them ample time to reorganize their forces, yet leave too little or no time at all for said forces to try and run for it. That, and having Zesyyr live till the last possible moment also prevented the potential deserters from trying to evacuate alongside the slaves earlier. Good plan, all in all. But Zesyyr's betrayal turned it completely upside down.

First of all, other high-ranking members of the house aside from Gulthrys and himself were by now informed of the change of plans. The commoner majority was left out of it, of course – their role was merely to follow orders of their superiors as they came without question, no more (or less) than that. Since siding with the Valsharess was the best possible survival option they all had right now, Tarnash doubted that many (if any) other commanders would oppose the idea. In fact, they were most likely to support it fully. And that presented a problem. A major one.

If Zesyyr dies, their chances of switching sides in-battle would lessen considerably, due to the fact they would no longer have a Matron Mother to coordinate their actions with those of the invading force and without that, Valsharess's soldiers would likely kill off more then half of them before they realize they're on the same side. On the other hand, having other commanders know of the switch-side plan made the story of Zesyyr escaping completely implausible, for now her position was secure as it could be and she would have no reasons whatsoever to run away any more; quite the opposite, actually.

Having Zesyyr simply assassinated wasn't the best option either, for the assassin could only come from within the House or from the Seer's camp. Should the blame be laid on the Seer, she wouldn't take too kindly to it and would also lead to an all-out bloodshed almost immediately, thinning the ranks of both forces beyond usefulness. Should the blame be laid on the assassin from within on the other hand, it would point a direct finger either on him. Or, on Cahlind her assassins...

Cahlind, an assassin priestess, was as influential in the House as she had ever been. And currently, she supported Zesyyr fully. However, Tarnash had no doubts about his twin's ambition, so having the blame of Zesyyr's death fall on her would only provide her with the opportunity to go through with such a scheme fully and seize the leadership of the House herself. Born a commoner like him, she was still a female and a high-ranking priestess at that, thus already a few ranks above him; more then enough to be the most logical successor of the House instead of him. Surely a huge precedent, for no commoner could ever advance beyond her own birth-rank, but once the last one of the noble Maeviir bloodline is no more… And with Cahlind already being the highest-ranking female of the House, second only to the Matron herself… Yes, should Zesyyr die, Cahlind would undoubtedly impose herself as the new Matron.

For a brief moment, Tarnash and Gulthrys discussed the possibility of including Cahlind in their plans, but quickly decided against it. For many reasons, first and foremost being that Cahlind would beyond doubt simply continue where Zesyyr had left off and the betrayal plans would just go on unhindered. Which all together meant once Zesyyr dies, Cahlind would have to follow immediately. But even so…

Having both females killed was not undoable. However, it still didn't solve the major problem they were facing: how to keep the troops from betraying even after the coup, either right after or during the battle against the Valsharess? Surely, even if Cahlind is killed (a thought Tarnash found extremely pleasant), most of the commoners would still be against them. After all, their planned coup was not only blasphemous but would also, one way or another, ultimately ruin their chances of switching sides or escaping all together. What could they possibly say or offer to the bunch of drow with strong sense of self-preservation and finely honed survival instincts in order to prevent it? What threats or promises could they launch their way to get them to stay here and fight? That, and to prevent them from killing him and Gulthrys in the first place.

That was something Tarnash and Gulthrys simply had to figure out, even while making preparations for Zesyyr's overthrow tomorrow. And that was what they spent the remainder of the night discussing. In the end, no matter what little things they managed to come up with, most of them heavily relying on Tarnash's reputation among the troops, it seemed that their prime hope of succeeding remained that the Masked God himself would pop up and lend them a hand.

* * *

**The Temple…**

Kimmuriel observed the female as she slowly tapped her fingers on the table, her mind furiously at work, nervous and frustrated by all the damning information she had just received. Nervous and frustrated, yet possessed of a commendable amount of calmness and self control in the face of the oncoming disaster. Kimmuriel's respect for the female had grown considerably in the past few hours, and it was only adding up.

More than three hours had passed since she stunningly quickly regained her composure after the initial shock at his sudden, unexpected appearance, and ushered him into her private quarters where they could discuss the matters at hand in private. That act alone told the psionic volumes, further confirming the opinion he had already formed about her.

"_Kimmuriel Oblodra,_" were her first words to him, spoken in calm, composed tone that revealed nothing of her true feelings at the moment. That was a good start. She recognized him, of course, and in truth, Kimmuriel couldn't deny he was pleased by that – After all, being constantly in the shadow of his former leader wasn't really all that pleasant. But this time, he was recognized instantly, and not as merely a former lieutenant, but as a true leader of the mercenary band. Was it, he wondered, an honest nod to his rank, or was the Seer merely placating him in advance? Well, if it was the latter, Kimmuriel, ever a pragmatic, had to admit that it worked. Completely. Score one for the Seer.

Next score, she earned immediately after by inviting him into these secure chambers before even asking about Maeviir or even his reasons for being here… let alone just how he got here in the first place. Smart move, and obviously guided by a very swift mind. She knew who he was as well as (he had no doubts about it) who had enlisted his band at the time. And yet, she showed no signs of hostility, not even curiosity, but recognized the need for utter privacy instantly – Cutting a deal with the rebels would land him into very serious trouble should Sinvyl ever find out about it, so less people know about it, the better and less chances for this semi-treachery of his to get revealed.

Semi-treachery, for he wasn't trying to ally himself with the rebels, but to try and play both ends of the war. Such was the way of Bregan D'Aerthe ever since they were founded, and the change of the leader didn't mean the change of such a successful policy at all.

And this Seer knew that as well as he did.

"_So, it would appear that Tarnash and Gulthrys have betrayed us after all,_" the Seer opened the first round.

Kimmuriel leaned forward raising an amused eyebrow while he considered her words and all the implications they carried. She assumed that he had been here for a while and thus, already knows about the covert war between her and the Maeviir matron. But does he know about the supposed alliance between her and the Weapon Master and the High Wizard too? That was for his answer to reveal. And, Kimmuriel knew, no matter what he says, she will be one bit of information richer. He had to consider his answer carefully: put up a pretence of ignorance, or come out blunt? Or, how 'bout option three...

"_Followers of Ellistraee and,_" he paused, making a small show of pretending to fish for the right word, "_…her brother, rarely rub elbows, do they now?_" Yes, he did know about those two, but no, he wasn't giving any more then she was giving him. No more, but no less either – his pointedly not mentioning the god's name, or even one of his aliases, a small nod of respect on his part.

"_Not under normal circumstances, _" came her reply, "_However, times in which… their mother… is absent, arch-devils walk the streets of Menzoberranzan and Bregan D'Aerthe serves as a war party can hardly be called 'normal'. _"

Kimmuriel's eyes narrowed. Yes, she understood what he meant perfectly – by saying that Ellistraee and Vhaeraun followers usually don't get along, he had in fact reminded her that Vhaeraun and Lolth followers do so even less, so no, Tarnash and Gulthrys did not betray. And what she said to him was that, while understanding his meanings perfectly, she understood his situation equally well. And by bringing that up that early in the game, she had also told him that, since time was short for both of them, they better not waste it on too many word games. But what she told him above all was that her own information-gathering network was no less successful and active than his own. A warning and a subtle threat, increasing the pace of the banter and opening round two. "_Very well_," he thought to himself, "_Gloves off it is then._"

"_No. And times in which one's entire defense structure is about to come crumbling down are called 'dire'._ _And in times so dire, one needs all the allies one can get,_ " he said, returning both the threat and the warning equally.

"_Agreed,_" she nodded with a small smile, obviously understanding that his words were aimed at her as much as at himself. "_However, with allies so quickly turning into enemies lately…_"

He noted her eyes were hard as she spoke the words, even while her smile remained. Another small threat flung his way, an early warning that she will not tolerate any more backstabbing, from anyone, least of all him. He remained calm, however. Not for a second did he feel his life was in danger here; for being here maybe, but not while here. With her so-called allies all holding a knife to her kidneys on one hand, and with all the information he had to offer and his entire band behind him on the other, Kimmuriel knew his position here was perfectly safe. If nothing else, dangerous and potentially hazardous as he was to her, he was still a much preferable option then Yasvyrae taking over Bregan D'Aerthe, which would surely come to pass should anything happen to him.

"…_one must choose her allies carefully,_" he finished her sentence pointedly, his words with as many implications and meanings as they could ever be. And a small bait on top of it, for what implications she chooses to observe mostly will tell him much more then she might wish to tell him. Or, he reflected, exactly what she wants to tell him.

"_As Bregan D'Aerthe was always known to do,_" she countered instantly. "_So, let us talk business, shall we?_"

And so it went on, throughout the night, information trading and favor-exchanging, games of "give a little, gain a little" and "I know that you know that I know, but I want you to tell it to me anyway," weighing every word and making sure that every little bit of information and counter-information were worth it. The Seer, well-versed in such games as she was, didn't disappoint Kimmuriel at all. And she drove hard bargain indeed.

Kimmuriel had already seen her in action, observing her tactics from the mind of a Maeviir guard earlier that day. But that was a child's game compared to this. What went on in House Maeviir was merely some clever cuddling of one vain Matron Mother's pride, while this, on the other hand, was the real thing – A big league. Clash of professionals. And the psionic couldn't deny he enjoyed it. Well, most of it anyway. Some parts, however, proved to be utterly disappointing, even while fully expected. Like the ex-slaves issue, for instance. Fodder, in his mind, and anything but in hers. Such was the price of firm beliefs and strong morals her faith dictated, he knew, and morality was ever a damning thing.

The wisest and tactically the best thing to do would be to forego all the plans for their rescue and keep them within the city to serve as a fodder for her troops. One, Sinvyl now knew their planned escape routes and would undoubtedly place some troops to wait for them there and two, the Seer's army was heavily outnumbered to begin with. Yet she would hear none of that. She refused to even consider the option. In her mind, those iblith were to be rescued and that was it. Ridiculous, Kimmuriel thought, risking almost everything, the lives of her own drow troops, the city itself, over mere slaves! Should she go through with her last desperate rescue plans, Lith My'athar would fall in the matter of hours. And that was something the psionic was not about to allow.

Sinvyl knew their escape routes now, but she didn't know about all of those. The Seer was wise enough not to reveal some of them to Zesyyr. However, she had no way of knowing if Zesyyr somehow found out about them (and it was safe to assume that she had) and she knew which ones exactly Zesyyr knew about even less. Kimmuriel knew precisely which ones, but firmly decided not to tell. If the Seer believes all the escape routes were imperiled, then she would have no choice but to seal them all and keep those slaves within the city after all. And that, in turn, would strengthen the city defenses, whether she likes it or not.

"_Her mind was crushed before I could learn more about it,_" he told her, referring to the Red Sister he had interrogated. Her look clearly told him she wasn't buying it – after all, a powerful psionic such as him surely wasn't so clumsy as to crush his victim before she could reveal the most critical information. "_I hardly had time to waste,_" he added in his defense.

"_I see. Well, it is only fortunate then that there are still at least two other minds who hold that information,_" she replied.

Kimmuriel looked at her curiously, scanning her words for every last meaning they had. And more he thought about it, the more he liked it. What she just did was to ask him to mind-scan either Cahlind or Zesyyr and both females were far too powerful to be scanned without noticing. So, a logical conclusion would be that they had to be imprisoned first and that in turn meant that the Seer was more than willing to move against Maeviir openly. A dangerous plan, for it would likely mean an all-out bloodshed within the city even before Sinvyl and her forces arrive. Then again, waiting for the battle to begin wasn't an option either so the Seer had no choice but to act as soon as possible. And she needed his help and cooperation for that, she needed a favor and she was asking for it fully knowing that the psionic would collect. So, he mused, she knew his price would be high, yet she made it clear she was willing to pay it. But how far was she willing to go?

"_I was planning to leave the city in the morning,_" he stated casually.

"_I don't think another day here would make that much difference to you,_" she countered, telling him, in fact, that she was certain House Maeviir would fall tomorrow. Tarnash and Gulthrys would take care of that. She didn't even have to check; the two simply had to, if they truly wanted to go through with their own plans. Basically, the only thing she had to do in all that was to somehow get the message that they should leave either Cahlind or Zesyyr (or both) alive. Alive for interrogation.

Kimmuriel almost chuckled at the thought. Interrogation always meant torture, and torture was not something the Seer stood for. In fact, she was adamantly against it. Mind-scanning, however, could be tormenting as well as subtle and barely damaging, and if he would perform it for her, both her hands and her conscious would be clean. Oh yes, she was asking for a big favor indeed.

Maeviir fall… It was going to happen regardless of what deal he cuts with the Seer. And whatever comes out of it, the consequences would be dire. Kimmuriel's mind quickly ran through all the possible scenarios, the very same scenarios, he was certain of it, Tarnash and Gulthrys were discussing at the approximately same time. One needn't be a mind-reader to figure that out – one only needs to be a drow. And this Seer, in spite of holding the ideals more suited for some darhtiir, most certainly was one. And a wise one at that, which meant she was perfectly aware of just how much was at stake here. In that light, her stubborn insisting to risk everything just to get a couple of dozens of mere iblith to relative safety only served to fuel the psionic's anger further. But it also made him curious. And also weary. Could it be that she has some other plan up her sleeve, another angle that he himself wasn't even aware of? It could very well be so. Or, he scolded himself silently, he was simply reading too far into this.

"_I have contacted Lords of Waterdeep a while ago,_" she changed the subject abruptly.

Kimmuriel's senses sharpened immediately. Agreed, better to let that slave matter drop for now, but he knew better than believe she was willing to let it pass all together. The trick she just used was known to him all too well: change the subject, discuss another matter, and one that concerned him far more then it concerned her right now at that, and then just loop around on him when his guard goes down a bit and extract what she wants from him anyway. He silently reminded himself to stay alert and showed only mild amusement at her words.

"_They have agreed to send their aid. In fact, I believe they have already approached their contacts and prominent fractions and figures of Skullport to that end,_" she continued casually without missing a beat.

Kimmuriel's hand stopped short, glass of wine half way to his mouth. For a moment only, a venomous shade colored his eyes. Skullport – the most unruly place he had ever known with about as many fractions and clans as there were spiders in L'loth's temple. And his band was barely a week from entering it. "To infiltrate," Sinvyl had said, but she might as well had said "to get killed" instead. True, Bregan D'Aerthe had its own contacts in the Port of Shadows, but none too strong or overly important. And even if their ties in that city had been strong, still no fraction there would ever be interested in being enlisted in any take-over plans. Not out of any patriotism of course, for in Skullport there was none, but out of pure merchants' pragmatism - Too many had their interests in that city, steady and lucrative trade business that none was ready to imperil. And Sinvyl's plans for using Skullport as a base for launching further attacks on Waterdeep meant exactly the thing.

Normally, a drow or any other enthusiastic invading force wouldn't worry the Skulkers too much – The Skulls would deal with any such threat swiftly and efficiently. This time, however, the threat to the city was not normal. One of the highest ranking pit fiend generals of Cania was marching alongside the invading army, and by the time they reach Skullport it was very likely that the arch duke Mephistopheles himself would join them. Powerful as they are, Kimmuriel doubted that even the Skulls were a mach for him.

It didn't take long for him to put it all together and conclude that, in these circumstances, the most unlikely thing to ever happen was about to become the most likely one - An alliance! An alliance between all Skulkers' fractions, lords of Waterdeep and possibly even the Skulls themselves, coming together with the common goal of preventing Sinvyl's advance. An alliance that was likely being forged even as he sat here thinking about it, and by the time Bregan D'Aerthe reaches the city the first defending troops would already be ready and waiting. And that, put bluntly, meant that Bregan D'Aerthe is screwed. Big time.

Unless, of course, they were allowed to proceed as he had originally planned, pretending to prepare the terrain for Sinvyl's arrival in order to fool Yasvyrae, while in truth setting her and her red Sisters for disaster. It was a task he could very well perform, of course - after all, one can hardly better a psionic in mind games – but a task that would be made considerably easier (and far less lethal) should the Skulkers be informed of it in advance, something that the Seer could very well do and… And he had just been looped!

The thought made him both pissed and amused at once, and he struggled briefly with the desire to slap and congratulate the Seer at the same time for pulling her trick off so efficiently on him.

With such an army waiting for Sinvyl in Skullport, getting her severely crippled here was suddenly no longer a top priority. And that meant they could well afford not to have those iblith slaves here as a fodder. Of course, that might also mean that his interest in Lith My'athar holding out as long as possible was no more, but Kimmuriel knew better then to play on that card. Given the fact that he and his band will be in Skullport at the time of Sinvyl's arrival, more crippled she gets there, the better. And, the realization hit him, he will still be able to play this out to his advantage.

Should he now learn of some of the safe escape routes and should Lith My'athar fall and the Seer and her lot get killed, then he and he alone would be privy to some perfect slave-harvesting spots. And those slaves would fetch a rather fair price in Skullport, not to mention it would give him the opportunity to further strengthen his ties within that city, especially the Iron Ring. And should the Seer and hers, by some miracle, survive all this, at least long enough to join the Skullport forces… Well, wouldn't Lith My'athar make a perfect outpost for Bregan D'Aerthe?

Yes, the city was the prize in and of itself. And after another hour or so of heavy bargaining, Kimmuriel had won it. There was only one important matter left to discuss.

"_And now,_" he said, pouring himself some more wine and leaning back into the soft cushion chair more comfortably, "_About the Z'hinrret female…_"

* * *

**Elsewhere…**

Wisps of red smoke emanate from the walls, curling and twisting like coils of her whip. Flickering flames and droplets of frost merge together behind her sensual form. Frost and flames, so much like herself, but she pays no heed to it. Her attention focused on two naked bodies beside her, around her, inside her, moaning and shifting in the games of lust. Games she can afford. Games that she likes.

So, she muses as she caresses the female below her, they believe they have an edge now? They have defeated her allies, have they not? She chuckles, softly, at the thought. But have they not also thinned their own ranks in doing so? And her own forces still outnumbered them at least ten to one. And shall outnumber them even more still, her gaze falls on the muscled figure standing impassively a bit further away. He shall see to that.

The muscled one smirks lightly, guessing at her thoughts and nods, confirming what they both knew will happen, starting this very night. As soon as she's through playing her lecherous little game.

The female beside her, her prized Red Sister, moans with pleasure. She's given special attention this time, as a reward for her success earlier that day. Success that shall bring another edge to her mistress in the oncoming battle and a nasty surprise for those fools that dared oppose her.

The male stifles a scream of both pleasure and pain. He knows full well he likely won't live beyond tonight, knows full well his only purpose in being here is to heighten the pleasure of two females around him. And the two found pleasure in lust as well as in death. His looks and stamina that got him through life so far will also be his death before the night ends. And he knows it, so he sets himself on living the last moments of his life to the fullest. After all, there's nothing else he can do.

Hours later, as the dawn breaks somewhere high above in the lands of the light and a bloodied male corpse is dragged out of a chamber in the lightless lands below, a huge muscled figure offers the ice-and-fire one a smile. And as she turns and begins an incantation to make contact with a portion of her forces returning from Drearing's Deep, he turns away and focuses on making yet another contact – a contact that shall ultimately spell the impudent rebels' demise.

And wisps of red smoke begin emanating from the walls once more, flickering flames and droplets of frost, merging together in a dance of death.

* * *

**Everything Changes, And Nothing Is Truly Lost…**

"_Ardency of life forsakened  
time will gather the source of thy secrecies  
Ardency of life forsakened  
in swarthy hours thou ponder still_"

_Tristania, _"_Lethean River_"

**...X**

Jewels, precious and rare, fall out of the trembling hands, slipping through fingers like grains of sand.

Precious. Precious and rare. So hard to gain. So easy to lose. Polished… Perfect…

Rubies, red, like drops of blood. Emeralds, green shine of poison. Sapphires the blue of the depths. And diamonds, faceted diamonds the color of ice. And harder then steel. Icy and hard, unyielding and sharp. Polished, perfect, glittering softly. Glittering softly in layers of mud.

Lost! Lost to the mud! In a moment of weakness, by uncertain hands. In the moment of weakness, by wavering heart.

A trembling hand, reaching into the mud. Slippery, slippery jewels, eluding the clutching fingers... Until the trembling stops. Until there's resolve again.

To gain again what once was lost. Precious and lost… But glittering still.

* * *

_Well, thank you all, both for the reviews and for bearing with me for so long! ;)_

**Wolf-Kin:** Poor Tarnash indeed. /grin/ What can I say? - I like him so much I just have to land him in trouble. And since you like long chapters, I hope you enjoyed this one too.

**Lord Onisyr:** Thank-you. My, and I thought previous chapter was a bitch to write! I'm beginning to think that the biggest disaster I'm setting up here is my own! ;) Glad you liked the kobolds. Also, hope you found Kim equally good here.

**Penname wa Silver B:** Yep, Cahlind is Tarnash's twin. Glad you noticed it. And yeah, Shi'van and Valen are back… however, how useful they are right now, especially to themselves is an entirely different matter all together. ;) And yeah, there _is_ a reason behind "Darkblade". After all, didn't her last name always seem a bit… cliche? ;)

**Night Vendiviel:** Well, I think if you read this chapter carefully, you've seen who is here instead of Mephie as well as whose side Kimmureil is really on. Well, his own, of course. ;) As for valen's answer, think you'll have to wait another chapter or two for that… as ever. /evil grin/. Btw, playing BG2 is good.

**euphorbic:** Yeah, those two drunk asses _are_ pathetic, aren't they? ;) Oh well, guess things just naturally led to that happening. Jansori… I'll have to remember that. It's Enserrick all right. /grin/ Yep, I bitch about your cliffhangers –at least you were privy to a sneak-peak of this chapter.

**Fatpanda:** Well, glad you had the nerve to read all of it. Not many care to read stories from the start when they're already more than 20 chapters long. Thanks! Yeah, I did try to keep everyone in-character… or, at least, the way _I_ think their characters should be. ;)


	26. Countdown to Extinction

**Disclaimer:** All the characters, places and events belong to their creators. Shi'van's mine! And so are the original parts of this story! And if someone wants to sue me for the copyrights, I'll have them know I'm broke, so they won't make any money out of it… at least, no more then I'm making out of this. ;)

**A word to the wise… and not-so-wise as well:** Yes, I know – it _has_ been ages since the last update. I am sorry, but all sorts of things managed to come up, including daily around-the-house chores, sudden and unexpected infestations of various relatives, bf having a _really_ bad day, thus not letting me go anywhere near the computer, writers block, writers de-block, but for another story entirely, boring and time-consuming hikes to the doctors', invasion of Monstrous Exams from Hell, me accidentally starting the WW3… Errr, ok, scratch last one. ;) Anyway, you get the picture.

Trust me, I hate these delays just as much as you do. I've come to the part where so many plots overlap and so many things happen at the same time and during a very short span at that (down to just one day even) that delays of this sort simply make it horrible and losing the whole point of it. Back when I stretched the events over the course of several months, I updated almost every second day; now, when things are happening within one single day, I upload barely once per month. Think there's some irony to be found in all that. ;)

That said, I can only promise that I'll _try_ to upload more frequently from now on. Mind you, I said _try_! I'm not promising I'll actually do it, but try to do so – definitely.

A bit about the chapter itself: Originally, I planed to have the whole Maeviir business over and done with in this one but, as it happens, I got carried away… again. Yes, I might be stretching things a bit _too_ much now and maybe I'm suffocating you all with way too many details… But!

Once I played a campaign in which our party generally drifted through Underdark, killing whatever stumbled in its path and rescuing around full two cities of slaves in the process. Thinking back about it, the most difficult part of it was precisely it! – The stress of getting all those damned, helpless, clueless and so on people out of there and escorting them back on the surface made even slaying a whole city of kua-toa pale in comparison! Now, add to it the fact that Lith My'athar is as fortified a position as you can find, no breach in its defenses whatsoever (lest Sinvyl's assassins would've been there months ago), yet a whole shitload of ex-slaves is in there right now, waiting to be taken out and you'll see why I simply _had to_ explain some things in detail.

On a side note, I'm also very proud of the Tarnash-Imloth scene in this one – those two are such fun to write! Kinda like, you had the dubious pleasure of witnessing row after heated row between Valen and Shi'van. Well, now check out these 'professionals' here and get to see how those things are _really_ done. ;)

Lastly, some info and due credits: _Qu'el'saruk_ means "House Weapons Master," _Jabbuk_ means "Master (male in charge of some task or office)" and _T'risstana_ means exactly what it says. For that name, as well as drow fighting styles mentioned, the credit goes to the "In-Depth Look at the Drow" site. The gesture Tarnash makes, its description and meaning both, are mentioned in one of the books of WotSQ series and the info about it was provided to me by _Lord Onisyr_ ( Thanx/glompz/)

P.S. And the meaning of "glompz" has just recently been explained to me by _Penname wa Silver B_ who, as you know, is also my editor for this. So, "glompz" for you too, Pen. ;)

Well, enough of my blather and on with the show:

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 17 **

_**Countdown To Extinction**_

**Reaper's Realm…**

Shi'van sat on the ground and pulled a sandwich out of her bag. Taking it in both hands, she took a bite and began chewing it slowly. Blood dripped on the floor.

A huge gash ran down the length of her forearm, blood trickling from it, flickering in the pale light of the Reaper's realm.

She swallowed and took another bite. Both her hands were bloody. So was the sandwich now. It was a drow-baked bread, the flour made out of fine dried mushrooms. It was fresh. For some reason, that seemed very important. There was a fairly thick chunk of rothe ham put over it. She liked it. It tasted good. Blood smeared her leg.

A slender stiletto lay on the ground beside her. Zesyyr's stiletto. Acid bit deep into the wound. Her arm twitched. She took another bite.

"_You know,_" she said with her mouth full, "_I think I should've told Halaster to shove it._"

"_Perhaps, sojourner._"

"_And you know what else?_"

"_No, sojourner._"

"_I think I should've killed that tiefling the moment I met him._"

"_If you say so, sojourner._"

"_Or, alternatively, I should've just killed myself instead. Not that it ever worked, though._"

"_Apparently, sojourner._"

"_And you know something else, too?_"

"_No, sojourner._"

"_In retrospective, I think I'm entirely too old for this shit._"

"…"

"_But you know what above all else?_"

"_No, sojourner._"

"_I think I'm making a complete fool out of myself right now._"

There was something akin to a chuckle coming from beneath the Reaper's hood.

"_But somehow,_" she took another bite, "_I feel strangely cool about it._"

"_Too cool, perhaps, sojourner?_"

"_Nope. Just cool... Calm, I think._"

"_Like 'calm before the storm', sojourner?_"

"_Y…Yeah. Something like that. I… For some reason,_" she swallowed her bite thoughtfully, "_I still feel a tiny bit alive. Hmmmm…_" she looked down at her bleeding arm as if she was seeing it for the first time in her life, "_Perhaps this has something to do with it_…"

There was no response. She took yet another bite. It was always good to eat. It not only kept you alive - sometimes, it made you feel alive, too. Especially if you happened to be starving for the most of your life.

She swallowed the last bite of her sandwich and rose up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Blood smeared her face.

"_Well,_" she said, turning to the Reaper, slightly swaying on her feet, "_I think I'm gonna go now. Uhm… Sorry for the mess,_" she added, looking at the bread crumbs going red in the trails of blood on the floor.

"_It is… all right, sojourner._"

She stopped before she reached the astral gateway and turned her head. "_Reaper?_"

"_Yes, sojourner?_"

"_Will you cut it with that 'sojourner' crap already? The name's Shi'van, dammit!_"

"_Very well…_" the Reaper's voice followed her as she stepped into the gateway, "…_T'risstana._"

And that's when she stopped short.

Her leg already inside the gate, she couldn't possibly reverse her steps now and jump back into the chamber behind. But still, she did manage to turn her head, just long enough to catch a glimpse of a purplish spark, going from blue to gold, beneath the Reaper's hood.

And then she was out in the courtyard, shaking and dazed, all traces of her drunkenness gone at once.

He spoke the name. T'risstana. The name, given to her by her father, way back in time… In another life. _T'risstana…_

_Darkblade… _

**&$$$$$$$$$&**

_**Five…**_

Imloth tapped his foot while carefully scanning the training grounds. The troops were nervous, he noted, and just about ready to go at each other's throats. Obviously, not much had changed since yesterday.

He grinned slightly as he recalled the events of the previous day. Even the pain of his wounds subsided at the sight of a usually cocky Tarnash walking in with his back slumped and his expression bordering on despair. Imloth didn't know what made the Maeviir Weapon Master so sour, but whatever it was, he vowed that should he ever find out, he'll buy it a drink. And even more pleasing was the expression Tarnash made upon seeing his new blades – the vicious-glowing longswords he picked up in Vix'thra's lair. Aside from being as sharp as any blades he'd ever seen, save maybe for Shi'van's, Imloth still wasn't sure about all the magical properties his swords possessed. But those he did learn about pleased him greatly. Especially one. Yesterday, before coming here, he gave Rizolvir the blades for a closer inspection. And after about an hour or so, the inspection yielded the most magnificent result. Apparently, the blades were a pair, and if the correct command was spoken (or even sent mentally to the blades), the hilts of the swords would bind and extend, forming a beautiful two-bladed sword… Imloth's favorite.

A rather unfortunate incident revealed another property just this morning when, during a practice session, he cut one of the soldiers too deep. The drow doubled over in pain, much greater then his superficial wound should cause, and barely found the strength to stay on his knees. Picking up his swords and continuing the fight was completely out of the question. And so, it appeared the blades could actually steal their victims' strength, leaving them in agony and perfectly helpless… If cut right, that is. It was a Maeviir soldier that paid the price of that revelation and Imloth would have gladly went on with the experiment in order to see just how and where should he cut to produce that particular effect. But, they needed every weapon-wielding hand right now, so he stopped himself from pressing his attack any further and sent the unfortunate drow to the sick bay instead.

The commander sighed sadly. Had it been Tarnash, he would've surely experimented some more… And enjoyed it thoroughly. Speaking of the devil…

Tarnash entered the training grounds groggily. It was obvious to Imloth that his mind was elsewhere. And he knew why, too. Barely minutes ago, he overheard two Maeviir soldiers discussing the recent events in their House. Imloth chuckled under his breath. _Seems like the mantle of leadership isn't really all that it's cracked up to be, is it now, Tarnash?_

"_You're late,_" he said casually as Tarnash approached him.

"_You can't manage this rubble on your own?_" grinned the Weapon Master tauntingly. Imloth's eyes narrowed. For all his troubles, Tarnash still didn't lose all of his cockiness. Very well. Two can play that game.

"_Well, I have been a bit out of touch lately…_" he said innocently. This time, it was Tarnash's eyes that narrowed slightly.

"_Perhaps I should replace you with someone more competent then._"

Imloth shrugged, not about to allow the other drow to anger him that easily. "_Perhaps you should. Only… who with? I hear Saldrin did a fine job of… 'handling this rubble' all by himself. Which, I suppose, means he was the most competent of us after all,_" he said, all the while keeping a perfectly-innocent grin on his face. For a second there, Tarnash seemed as he was about to leap on him. But he kept his ire in check… for now.

"_Y…Yes. I suppose you're right,_" Tarnash said, feigning politeness. Imloth planted his feet more firmly on the ground. If Tarnash was being polite, that meant that something poisonous was about to follow. And he wasn't wrong.

"_At least, he didn't make a habit of incapacitating his own soldiers in training,_" the Weapon Master finished maliciously.

Imloth didn't blink. "_He didn't. And neither do I. It wasn't my soldier who was so poorly trained he couldn't defend himself against a simple routine attack,_" he shot back without missing a beat. "_I, at least,_" he continued, driving the point home, "_take care of my own… Which is more then I hear being said about you lately._"

This time, Tarnash was indeed about to leap at him. In fact, the only thing that stopped both weapon masters from spilling each other's guts (again!) was a female voice coming from the side.

"_So I suggest you better go and save what little reputation you have left, Tarnash,_" Nathyrra said coldly, motioning towards the assembled troops.

Tarnash gave the dangerous female a murderous gaze, but complied. He'd had enough trouble for one day already. Adding an ex-Red Sister to the list wouldn't do him any good. And adding himself to her shit-list (as if he wasn't there already) would suit him even less.

"_Just in time,_" Imloth grinned after the infuriated _Qu'el'saruk_ left. A part of him though, wished that Nathyrra had gotten there just a little bit later.

Nathyrra cocked her head, reading Imloth's expression clearly. "_If I didn't know better, I would think I'm looking at Valen right now._"

Imloth shrugged. "_Guess the company from Drearing's Deep rubbed off me somewhat._"

"_Yes… Maybe it did…_" Nathyrra mused, but her eyes never stopped scanning the grounds and, more pointedly, the Maeviir Weapon Master walking them.

Imloth looked at her carefully. After all the time spent together, he could read her expression as well as she could read his own. And the expression he saw told him that something was troubling her… Greatly. "_Something on your mind?_"

"_I…_" she began slowly, "_bring a message from the Seer. An urgent message, Imloth._"

Imloth's brow furrowed. "_Well, what is it, then?_" he asked, though he suspected that, whatever the message was, it beyond doubt had something to do with the house Maeviir. Suddenly remembering something, he glanced around himself nervously. Understanding his movement perfectly, Nathyrra produced a small glowing orb from her belt and tossed it on the ground. The orb shattered soundlessly, creating a near-perfect circle of fine, blue-hued dust. A barrier, Imloth recognized the rare and seldom used enchantment. Whoever stood within this circle for the next half-hour or so could not be scryed on. But this precaution Nathyrra took only served to confirm his suspicions about this having something to do with Maeviir even further.

"_Meaviir…_" Nathyrra said. There. He knew it!

"_Maeviir have betrayed us,_" the female continued quietly, "_And they have to fall. Today._"

Imloth's eyes went wide. True, he had expected something like this to happen, but still... How? When? And what were they to do about it?

Those and many other questions as well showed clearly on his face and Nathyrra quickly relayed to him everything the Seer had told her about the whole Maeviir affair, starting with Cahlind's little excursion into the wild Underdark and ending with the House's fast-approaching demise.

How the Seer had come to know so many details about it wasn't known to Nathyrra. True, the rebels' leader was a prophet of sorts, but prophecies always tended to be vague hints and glimpses, much more then the detailed information the Seer had now provided. There had to be an inside source around there somewhere, both drow knew, but since the Seer wouldn't tell, they wouldn't ask either. But whatever the source, neither of them doubted the truth of the Seer's words, and in the end, that was all that mattered. Still…

The Seer said that either Cahlind or Zesyyr (or both) should survive the attack, and that was as disturbing a detail as there could ever be. Firstly, it would make Tarnash's job much harder then it already was – taking over the rule of the house (or whatever's left of it by the time he's through) was hard enough to accomplish, but doing so without having a Matron's body to show for it made the success almost impossible. Still, that was something Tarnash would have to bang his head about, not them. And, as far as Imloth was concerned, may the insufferable Weapon Master crack his skull doing it. It was the other connotation of the Seer's order that was far more disturbing to both him and Nathyrra right now. Cahlind or Zesyyr must survive… There was only one possible reason for that: interrogation! And, as unpleasant (to put it very mildly) interrogations could get, when done by the drow, it could only mean an agony beyond belief. And the Seer now implied exactly the thing! Who with, then, did she throw her hand in? And just how bad did she think this new Maeviir situation was if she had actually agreed to something that, she was so strongly opposed to? Torture, of any sort, even for the information gaining purposes was not her way in the least and she would only resort to it if she had absolutely no other choice. Had it come to that then? Were they all really so crammed up in the corner that even the Seer had to resort to (in her mind at least) such despicable means? Apparently so.

And, just to make things even worse, there was yet another unpredictable factor in all that, and one they all saw could easily turn over the tide of events, just like that. There was Shi'van – the wild card on the loose.

"_You said it yourself, Imloth. There's no telling what she might do next. And no one has even seen her ever since you three came back yesterday._"

Imloth merely nodded, his mind racing down five different avenues at once. He himself had witnessed the shadowdancer's increasing insanity, and considering that she had greatly influenced this whole Maeviir business, had, in fact, pushed Tarnash on his current course herself, there was indeed no telling what she might decide to do about all this. If she even knew about this new twist, that is. The Seer made no mention of it, so it was safe to assume that she didn't, and that, in hindsight, might prove to be even more hazardous than it already was – Somehow, Imloth doubted that Shi'van would take well to being left out of something that she considered her own business. Not that any of them owed her anything really, and she herself had left them out of the plans that directly concerned them before, so they were even there. Still, he doubted she would see it quite that way. Not any more, at least. Few weeks ago? Likely. But now? Hardly. And just add to it the fact that she probably hated Zesyyr just as passionately as Zesyyr hated her and… True, with Shi'van calculation and pragmatism always came first, but after what he had seen going on in VIx'thra's temple… No, things definitely didn't look good from that side of the web. A small factor in the overall account, but every additional complication would only make things worse. Imloth sincerely hoped that that was one complication they would not have to deal with.

"_The Seer sent Deekin looking for her, and she also sent that… deva, what's-her-name, to fetch Valen. He, too, should be informed of all this. At least that way we'll have one less hothead to worry about,_" Nathyrra said, but her gaze, almost unconsciously, wandered off in Tarnash's direction.

Imloth followed suit. After all, Nathyrra was here only to inform him of what was going on. Soon, she would gather her assassins and spies and spread throughout the city, scouting for any assassins and spies Zesyyr and Cahlind had planted. If they were planning to betray, they would surely make such preparations well in advance. Dealing with Tarnash, on the other hand, was Imloth's responsibility.

Sensing he was being watched, Tarnash half-turned his head and then walked over. Nathyrra sneered.

"_Have you seen Shi'van recently?_" Imloth asked him as soon as he approached.

"_Not today._"

"_When?_" Nathyrra asked quickly.

"_Sometime yesterday. Why?_"

"_Never mind,_" the assassin replied and waved him off. Imloth, however, gave him a sign to stay. Tarnash stared hard at both of them.

"_Will you two make up your minds already?_" he growled in annoyance.

"_Watch your tongue, jabbuk!. And leave us!_" Nathyrra snapped.

For the second time this morning, Tarnash backed away from the two, putting every last ounce of self-discipline into stopping himself from running the obnoxious female through.

"_Now that was tactful,_" Imloth chuckled, having the pleasure of seeing the now completely out of sorts weapon master getting his nose rubbed twice in a row.

Nathyrra too grinned and, having completed her business here, left the training grounds.

Imloth sighed deeply as she disappeared from his sight. As Kimmuriel already noted during his brief stay in Lith My'athar, the way Ellistraee rebels functioned was not that much unlike Bregan Daerthe's modus operandi – A strict chain of command, yes, but at the same time, much was still left to individual initiative. A job needed to be done, but exactly how it would be pulled off largely depended on the individual and her or his imagination and creativity. Imloth sighed again. He wouldn't trade his freedom of choice for anything, but still, sometimes he wished he would at least be given a bit more accurate pointers. And sometimes, he just wished someone else had gotten the job instead, especially when said job involved Tarnash._ Bah_, he shook his head and scolded himself: it was neither the time nor the place for giving in to personal hatred. If even Valen managed to control himself long enough and well enough to handle his part of the troops – the gladiators rescued from the illithids and as wild and unruly a bunch as Lith My'athar had yet seen (bar the tiefling himself, of course) – then surely it was within Imloth's power to handle one single weapon master properly.

Casually, he walked across the training grounds, stopping here and there to give an instruction or two, until he finally approached the circle of warriors in the middle of which Tarnash was demonstrating a quick maneuver that, if executed properly, would send the multiple opponents stumbling into each other's way. Though difficult to fully master, the particular maneuver would come especially handy in the oncoming battle against the Valsharess in which the defenders would be seriously outnumbered. Or maybe, Imloth mused, the maneuver would come handy to those practicing it right now much sooner than that. Within the House, there were still far more conservative elements than the revolutionary, Tarnash-supporting ones. Once the coup began, there was little doubt that the Vhaerunite fraction would be facing at least three-on-one odds. And hence, the maneuver.

Imloth chuckled silently and waited for the show to end. The display was quite impressive really. Rivalry aside, Imloth still had to admit Tarnash was as skilled a warrior as he'd expect a _Qu'el'saruk_ to be. But moreover, watching it all gave Imloth a chance to pay closer attention to those Maeviir soldiers who participated in the exhibition. Those, he knew, would be the ones who would get to use that maneuver much sooner than the most.

Demonstration over, Imloth waited for Tarnash to spot him and then motioned for him to come over.

"_What?_" Tarnash snarled in annoyance.

Imloth said nothing, but rather motioned for him to follow. The look on the Maeviir Weapon Master's face was as distrustful as he had ever seen him wear. Still, he complied after few more moments of the staring game. Something in Imloth's expression told him to.

Several paces later, however, Tarnash stopped and looked at Imloth questioningly. They were headed for the very edge of the grounds and he wanted to know why.

"_I don't want to be overheard,_" Imloth explained, using the silent drow hand code. Tarnash stared at him hard. Obviously, there was much more to it than just that, but in the end, the only way to find out what was to play along… for now. And so he followed, though his grip on the hilts of his swords tightened considerably.

Far enough from the rest of the troops and stepping into the now nearly invisible scry-blocking circle, Imloth stopped and focused his gaze on Tarnash.

"_You'll leave Zesyyr alive,_" his hands flashed. Caught completely off guard, Tarnash just blinked. "_Preferably, Cahlind as well,_" Imloth continued, and that was when Tarnash knew for certain that, through whatever means, the Ellistraee lot knew everything there was to know about the Maeviir turmoil. Quick to recover from the initial shock, he narrowed his eyes threateningly.

"_How I handle my own business is none of yours,_" he growled.

The threat in Imloth's eyes matched Tarnash's own. "_Both of them,_" he repeated, still using the silent hand signs, "_They both have some questions to answer._"

Tarnash's eyes lit with sly amusement. "_Oh? So it would appear your dear Seer is not such a nice girl after all._"

Imloth refused to take the bait. "_No. And I'm even worse… or do you need a personal demonstration?_"

Tarnash glared. "_Kyorlin Plynn?_" he taunted, referring to "watch and take" - a particular fighting style that relied on the defensive tactics and effective disarming that left the weaker opponents defenseless and hindered the stronger ones' ability to fight effectively. Tarnash's favorite tactics when he wanted to play, the style he had just been demonstrating, and also the style he had used in his last encounter with the Ellistraee weapon master.

Imloth grinned and shook his head. "_Orb Alur,_" he responded. "Superior Spider" – the fighting style that combined the best parts of both Kyorlin Plynn and Bautha Z'hin, the "dodge and walk" style. Orb Alur relied on leaping attacks and wide, sweeping maneuvers that could strike several opponents dead in a single blow. It was among the hardest (and thus, most respected) drow fighting styles that only few could master. It was also Imloth's prime.

Tarnash's hand shot forth, palm up and fingers clenched – a representation of a dead spider, a gesture of highest blasphemy in the L'loth-based society… and a very indicative showcase of what he thought of 'spiders' in general, fighting or otherwise. Imloth couldn't help but chuckle.

"_Lets cut the crap,_" he signaled, "_You know you have no choice in this. You want the Seer's help, she wants those two alive. How simple does it get?_"

"_I run you through and get my resurrection scroll refund?_"

Imloth stared at him for a few seconds and then broke into laughter.

"_You're too cocky for your own good,_" he said to the younger male between two snickers, completely ignoring the curious glances the soldiers were throwing his way.

"_And you're too loud for yours,_" Tarnash reminded him coolly.

Grin disappeared from Imloth's face in a snap.

"_Listen to me,_" his hands flashed quickly "_I'm making you an offer, Tarnash. One you are not in a position to refuse. I don't like you. I want you dead. And you know it. But I also don't want the streets of this city littered with corpses too soon. Zesyyr goes down today, and she goes to us. Alive. How you handle it is entirely your own problem. Likely you'll get the corpse when we're done. Cahlind as well. Now, I'm guessing most of those,_" he motioned towards the troops in training, "_are not yours. You take what's yours and I'll keep the rest on the drill. When spider comes to the web, we'll have our daggers at their throats – That should keep them in line until you and the wizard come to terms with them. Again, how you do it is your own business… and none of mine,_" he added with a wicked smirk. "_Should you survive this day, I for one, won't be much pleased. But much to my dismay, you're still needed, so try not to blunder too much._"

Tarnash listened to him in silence, his mind fast processing everything he had just heard. No matter how much he hated to admit it, the overall plan sounded good. Should Imloth really keep the rest of the Maeviir troops at bay, then he would have to leave very little of his own to do that same job and thus, he'd have more to take with him into the battle. "Smuggling" so many inside the house, however, would require coming up with some plausible lie, but he figured he'd work something out as he went along. The only real problem he was facing here was that "Zesyyr must live" thing. Or Cahlind. He hated either option to begin with and had, in fact, already envisioned himself finally plunging his blades through both of the hated females' backs. However, while he could live with denying himself the pleasure, he still had no idea just how exactly he would take over and ensure the needed subordination from the majority of the house without a Matron's corpse first.

"_I need the corpse, dammit,_" he hissed in frustration.

"_Make one,_" Imloth shrugged non-committaly, with the clear undertone of "and do make my day and make it your own".

Transah's eyes lit up at the suggestion and he sized Imloth up. "_I'll make many,_" he promised slyly. But then his face turned serious again. "_Give me two... no, three hours to get everybody in place, and then buy me two more. And try not to blunder too much._"

Imloth nodded and snickered lightly at the departing Weapon Master's last remark. No, he would not blunder, he knew, and neither would Tarnash. Too much hung on too thin a thread right now. To give a performance any less then perfect would mean that the Valsharess would come into the city to find only corpses in its streets.

**&$$$$$$$$$&**

_**four…**_

"…_and if any of the Maeviir prove to be too much trouble,_" the Seer paused and touched Valen's hand briefly, "_prevent them from doing any greater harm. But do not kill or incapacitate them too severely unless absolutely necessary,_" she finished, scanning the tiefling's grim face carefully, trying to determine just how well in check his rage truly was.

"_I'll follow Imloth's lead,_" Valen replied, squeezing her hand slightly as to assure her he was indeed in control. "_If all else fails, I'll growl a lot,_" he added and even managed a small smile to accompany his words. The Seer nodded, returning the smile, but her smile waned the moment Valen had left the temple.

"Growl a lot…" Of course it would do the trick. It always had, with Maeviir troops as well as her own. And given his brief stay within the Maeviir compound a few months ago, the Seer doubted the Maeviir either forgot or liked the sight of a growling Valen too much. Even when he was calm, the rippling beneath the surface that was his cold, stern demeanor clearly showed that there was a ferocious beast hidden within – the rage of the Abyss, just waiting to be unleashed upon the unwary.

She turned to the sound of the footsteps behind her. Lavoera made a few steps forward and the two females exchanged a worried glance. Lavoera was the one who brought Valen in and, according to the deva, while not truly hostile, the tiefling's attitude towards her was considerably colder then it had been barely two days ago, back in the Drearing's Deep. Somehow, the Seer doubted it was just because she had found him sulking near the docks in a semi-drunken state. It wasn't just that, the Seer was certain of it, and afraid that the celestial was correct in her assumptions after all – spending too much time with Shi'van indeed made Valen darker somehow. While he was with her, be it out of spite or true disagreement (though most likely, equal parts of both), he would counter her callousness with a passion of his own. But once he'd left her presence, he seemed to adopt some of her callousness and the Seer now feared when her darkness would follow suit.

Nothing too dramatic at this point but still, it didn't look good. Perhaps, she mused, making him spend more time with Lavoera instead, and especially once this was all over, would do him more good then even she could hope for. Provided, that is, they survived all of this first. At this point, survival seemed less and less likely. But still, they were all warriors here, one way or another, and all of her troops followed her willingly down here. It was those who had become involved in it against their own will that now worried the Seer so. The freed slaves… and their imperiled escape routes.

All these months of work, all the preparations and carefully laid out plans… All of it now hanging on the verge of collapse due to the workings of one treacherous Matron Mother and all of it about to come crumbling down. And all that stood between her plans and utter doom was a dangerous and unpredictable psionic mercenary and an equally dangerous and even more untrustworthy weapon master.

Originally, the plan was to send as many as possible into the few larger hideouts – an abandoned mine, a large cave where once the myconids dwelled and even a small svirfneblin outpost the Seer had made contact with months ago - good hideouts, all of them and each had many supplies already stashed. The supplies that, if distributed carefully, would last for at least two weeks if not even longer than that. Should the rebels be victorious, then all those people could return into the city and afterwards, escorted to the surface at last. Should the rebels fail, however, (a possibility the Seer had to take into account), every one of those hideouts had several other ways out and away from the imperiled city. To doubly insure their chances of success, the Seer made certain that every slave group had with them a few persons capable of wielding weapons and at least one dwarf to guide the way through the caverns. Not much of a guidance and not much of a protection either, but should they keep to the routes they had mapped out for them, they'd still have fair chances of reaching the relative safety of that svirfneblin outpost half way between Lith My'athar and Skullport.

It wasn't just that so much time and effort had been put into rescuing those slaves, it was not even because the Seer simply couldn't bear the thought of so many innocents, innocents incapable of defending themselves, being left like lambs to the slaughter for either the Valsharess's troops or various denizens of the Underdark to devour. No, it was the people themselves, their hearts and their minds that the Seer was so worried and protective about. In setting them free, they had offered these people the most precious thing in the world – They had offered them hope! Hope, and a chance to go back to their homes and their loved ones and away from all the horrors they had been put through. A chance to escape. A chance to be free. Hope. And to take one's hope away was the worst thing a person could possibly do to another. To gain something, only to lose it again, was the worst fate of them all.

And so a plan was laid out, and laid out well in advance, ever since it had first become apparent that the attack on Zorvak'mur would indeed happen. For weeks, the more powerful priestesses and skilled rogues scouted the area – clearing it of all sorts of dangers, mapping out the routes and laying elaborate traps that the refugees could spring behind them should the need arise. Now, however, it seemed that most of those traps would be sprung by the Valsharess's advancing troops.

The Valsharesss now had a direct route into the city! Several of them, in fact. And that just rendered all of the carefully laid out defense plans downright useless. All of this time, their whole tactics revolved around the idea of a siege. Lith My'athar was as defensive a spot as they could possibly wish for, the walls of the cavern closing it from all sides save for the river and the small gap, a gap around which the gates were constructed, thus closing that entry as well. Both natural and magical protections prevented any intruders from breaching the place and even those escape routes were sealed shut. They could (and would) be opened via glyphs and enchantments, but only from the inside and only for a short while, and the exit points were far enough from the city for anyone to accidentally stumble upon them from the other side.

But now, with Zesyyr's treachery, all those routes were known to the Valsharess and she would undoubtedly try to use them. Which meant they had to be sealed. Permanently. All of them. Unless…

The Seer sighed in frustration. Unless… Unless, she reflected sourly, the psionic that currently resided in the same, concealed room that Tarnash had once occupied during his exile, could extract the knowledge of which routes were imperiled from Zesyyr's and Cahlind's minds. And he'd better do well, she thought, else she herself might lose her composure and do something quite rash and rather unpleasant… to all of them, the mercenary and the Maeviir females alike.

**&$$$$$$$$$&**

_**three…**_

Nathyrra stalked the streets. Silenced and invisible, still she kept to the corners and narrow alleys. She was hunting, and those she was hunting were likely to have detection spells about them. Cahlind wouldn't have her assassins go any other way.

For almost two hours now, she had glided through the streets, inspecting every shadow, every alcove, every dark corner suitable for an assassin to hide in. She didn't know how many she was hunting, but she was certain there would be at least a dozen or so. So far, she counted seven. About half done. Half more to go. She muttered a curse under her breath and picked up her pace. She had to find them all, and she had to do so soon. And above all, she had to find the leader… if she could.

It was only common for Cahlind's assassins – there would always be a leader, apt in using magic, be it items, scrolls or real casting, who would direct her subordinates via their house insignias – a method very similar to the one implored in the creation of communication globes prior to all this. Likely, she would be hidden somewhere near the House where she could consult with Cahlind or the Matron herself should the need arise. Or, given the fact that the Valsharess's attack could begin any day now, it was also possible that the leader, or even several prime assassins were already positioned near the temple… where they can strike at the Seer.

The thought stopped Nathyrra in her tracks and she clenched her fists tightly. Cahlind's assassins were good. No matter how good she was, Nathyrra still knew she and hers would be pressed hard against them. She was as skilled as she was deadly, but she never made the mistake of underestimating her opponents. In general, but among the drow in particular, that was one of the fastest, most certain ways to invite quick and sudden death. But if it was for the Seer…

Once again, Nathyrra swore to herself that she would protect the Seer, no matter the odds… or the cost, and once again resumed her hunt. Pity, she thought to herself, that she could not strike down those assassins she found right away. But due to the insignias' enchantments, that would give her away to Zesyyr or, which was much more serious, to Cahlind. No, she had to let them be… for now. In few hours, however…

**&$$$$$$$$$&**

_**two…**_

In a small, secluded room of the temple, Kimmuriel Oblodra relaxed in his chair, even throwing one leg over the armrest lazily. All in all, he was satisfied. The meeting with the Seer had gone as smoothly as he could possibly hope for and the profits to be had in all this had just been increased tenfold. And other things were coming together just as nicely.

Barely moments ago, the tiefling had left the temple, but prior to that, Kimmuriel had had more than enough time to scan the man thoroughly. He hadn't scanned his mind though, for several reasons, the chance of being sensed not being the least of those. But not the most important one either.

First, there was really no need – just seeing the man gave him all the information he needed to complete the mental picture of that one. There was enough anger and rage within him to counter any matron mother on an even level, but the mere fact that he was still able to keep himself in check spoke volumes of him. He seemed a capable commander all in all, and in hindsight, what else could one expect a Blood War veteran to be anyway? Stern, fierce and dangerous - that just about summed it up. And as far as Kimmuriel was concerned, that was all he needed to know. Whatever the tiefling's inner turmoils were (and they were numerous indeed) they were none of the psionic's concern - not the mention, the second reason why he refrained from entering his mind in the first place. Getting into the head of such a battle-hardened Blood Wars veteran and experiencing all the horrors in there first-hand was not really much to Kimmuriel's liking.

But the second head, the one on the shoulders of that shadowdancer… That was a head he must get into, and soon at that. What little the Seer could tell him about her (and it wasn't really a surprise the female knew fairly little, either) only made him more certain of it. He was both intrigued and annoyed by the task ahead. Annoyed, for the proud psionic considered no head of any iblith whatsoever an interesting place to visit, and especially the head that (confirmed now) came from Calimport. He snickered slightly as a thought passed through his mind: _It would've been nice if she left her body in Calimport and brought in just the head._ But amusing and annoying thoughts aside, he had to admit he was intrigued by that female. After all, wasn't even Sinvyl herself intrigued by her? His face soured at the thought. Comparing himself to Sinvyl in any way didn't really sit well with his guts.

But be that as it may. Pleasant or unpleasant, it will all have to wait for now. Right now, there was yet another head he had to enter.

Rising from his chair, the psionic stretched, flexed the slightly-aching back muscles of his bare, black-skinned torso and fell onto the bed, putting both arms comfortably behind his head. He detached his mind from his body and let it wander the streets of Lith My'athar, the Maeviir compound, the courtyard and finally, the topmost floor of the House. And then, he touched the already-familiar mind of the female bodyguard at the Matron's side, settled inside it inobtrusively and waited for the show to begin.

**&$$$$$$$$$&**

_**one…**_

"_Just for a second a glimpse of my father I see_

_And in a movement he beckons to me_

_And in a moment the memories are all that remain_

_And all the wounds are reopening again_"

_Iron Maiden, "Blood Brothers"_

Shi'van drifted through the streets but moreover, through the haze of her own mind. _T'risstana_ – that was all she could hear right now, spoken in thousand voices over and over again. The Reaper's, her father's, her own…

She was oblivious, oblivious to her surroundings, oblivious to the fact that Deekin, dear, sweet Deekin, was looking for her right now, wandering the streets of the city no less aimlessly then she; oblivious even to the fact that barely an hour ago Karandras, who had spent the whole night pestering the guards and playing pouncing games with them, thus driving them more insane than their entire stay in Underdark ever could, had been scooped up by the back of his shadowy neck by a rather annoyed tiefling, unceremoniously marched through Lith My'athar and finally got dumped somewhere near the training grounds, confused as a puppy.

But Shi'van was oblivious to it all. The only thing on her mind, the only thing that mattered right now, was the name. And, more pointedly, why was it spoken? Why, after all this time? Why… Why now?

There had to be a reason. She was sure of it. The Reaper could've said it a thousands of times before. And yet, he hadn't. Not until now.

Images flashed through her head, those same images that had floated through it through the entire night. Only now, they were much harder to take - She wasn't drunk any more. The night, the ruins, the desert… Her father, the raid, the traitor, the… Suddenly, she stopped.

The traitor! Ra'sin!

Of course!

Her mind worked furiously. Not her conscious mind, but her subconsciousness suddenly worked it all out. The traitor… The treason! That was it! That was why the Reaper mentioned it! That was what he was really saying to her! He reminded her of her name, reminded her of how she got it… and reminded her how it all ended. And why. Suddenly, it all made perfect sense.

_The bitch has betrayed!_

Silent as death and just as swift, Shi'van darted deeper into the shadows and quickly picked the shortest route to the source of her rapidly-rising anger, blind hate and a misplaced vengeance long overdue – to House Maeviir.

_We were betrayed once. This time, there will be no mistake. _

**&$$$$$$$$$&**

…_**Zero!**_

All was prepared.

The soldiers were in position. Assassins waited with their daggers ready to take out the unsuspecting guards, warriors probed the edges of their blades, knowing that soon they would shed blood. Wizards prepared their spells of silence and destruction. Fully one third of House Maeviir troops eagerly waited for the command to strike, to strike and end their Matron's reign at last. Tarnash's eyes narrowed, scanning his surroundings. Gulthrys, his back still sore and his heart aching for vengeance, flexed his fingers in anticipation.

All was prepared… to plunge into death.

Tarnash looked around him again, silently going through the entire plan one final time, calculating the right moment. Slowly, he lifted his hand, palm forth and fingers outstretched, ready to give his troops the long-awaited signal at last.

_Five, four, three, two, one,_ his fingers spoke, _five, four, three, two, one… GO!_

And with the flick of it's treacherous Weapon Master's wrist, the fall of House Maeviir had begun.

_Yup, I know – I'm damn, bloody wicked for leaving you with such a cliffhanger. What can I say? More reviews I get, more inspired I am to post the next chapter. Heh, you know the stunt. ;)_

_Now, before I answer all you dear people who keep reviewing this, I'd like to to say something: Few weeks ago, I left my profile page open and did something else. However, about every ten minutes or so, the hit counter showed one additional hit – One per chapter that is, starting with chapter one! So, somebody actually read the whole thing in a single night! I nearly leapt out of my skin for joy! And thus, **Mysterious Reader**, whoever you are – THANK YOU! ;)_

**Penname wa Silever B:** You know, at first the problem was not to reveal too much of Shi'van's background. Now, I have problems revealing it at all! But no worries there – I think I found a very neat way to show both hers and Valen's sometime soon. And as for the Maeviir final fall… Heh, in next chapter. ;)

**Billy:** Thank-you! You know, that means really a lot! As much as I like detailed reviews, just knowing that people are still reading this warms my heart. ;) Thank you ever so much and I'm glad I'm still keeping you interested in all this. ;)

**euphorbic:** OK, we shot about a thousands of emails lately, so no need to go over all that again. I will tell you one thing though – Tarnash and Gulthrys a "demented long-time married couple"? Gods, you're killing me! And yes, those two can indeed ground an airbus… wait for a few more chapters, and they'll be grounding dragons as well! Though, in hindsight, they already did. ;) And you really liked those last lines so much/blush/

**Lord Onisyr:** Told ya already – Kar is a "he"/grin/ You know how big a headache those intrigues gave me – it's good to hear all those pain-killers I had to quaff were worth it. ;) Think Kim's still in character here as well?

**Wolf-Kin:** /chomps cookie/ So you actually understood what they were talking about? Cool – even I lost them some half way through. ;) Glad you like Valen's backstory, there's a fair chance I'll be expanding it even further sometime in the future.

**Night Vendiviel: **Yep, you're right – it's indeed a pit fiend there. See? You're not all that bad in reading clues after all. ;) And as far as rummaging in other's heads go… Oh, but you'll be seeing a _lot_ more of that soon! I can't give you any guarantees that you'll _like_ what you'll see, though… /evil grin/

_P.S. people – this chapter appears to be about 8000 words long. Well, the actual chapter is more like 6500 of them – the rest is just me shooting my mouth off. ;)_


	27. Proditores Punientur

**Disclaimer:** All the characters, places and events belong to their creators. Shi'van's mine! And so are the original parts of this story! And if someone wants to sue me for the copyrights, I'll have them know I'm broke, so they won't make any money out of it… at least, no more then I'm making out of this. ;)

_Welcome, one and all, to the blood-spraying splendor of the Festival of Madness and Death!  
Brace yourselves and your stomachs, folks – there just might be more gore here than you can handle!_

Whoa… am I theatrical, or what? ;) Anyway, grab a cola or something, for this is big! And I mean _big_! So big, in fact, that I had to split it in two, even while I really didn't want to do it. The good news is – I'm posting both at once, so "what happens next" is just a click away. But…

Since there's close too 20000 words here - I Want Reviews! I want them _detailed _and I want _lots_ of them! Why? Because I need to know what caught your eye, what made biggest impact and why. Without knowing that, writing a big mass battle once the Valsharess comes is going to be pretty hard, so… It's long people, so please deal. And that means you too, you lurkers in the shadows that I know are reading this, yet never reviewing! (Yes, I know you're out there – Shadows have more than 1000 hits now and I doubt it's just because people are re-reading it constantly. ;) ) Make an exception, just this once.

**A Warning:** This chapter (and that means both parts!) contains graphic violence and explicit torture scene(s)! If you have no taste or stomach for such things, don't read! You have been warned!

_Kim imagery dedicated to _euphorbic_ who was kind enough to edit this chapter! (A big applause is in order for that, people – there were more mistakes than I care to tell!)_

_

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**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 17 **

**Proditores Punientur**

_**(The Traitors Shall Be Punished)**_

"_The only real difference between an ally and an enemy is that one deserves a quick death."_

_-a drow saying-_

_

* * *

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"_I want to break free from your lies  
You're so self satisfied I don't need you  
I've got to break free  
God knows, God knows I want to break free_**"**

_Queen,"I Want To Break Free"_

_**Tenets Of Blood…**_

Lightning whizzed past the warrior's face, sending the ends of his hair flying, scorching an edge of his cheek and slamming into the chest of the one behind him. Instantly, he half-turned into a crouch, striking wide with his lead weapon. The blade connected, opening a wide gash in the belly of his stunned attacker and sent him stumbling even further down the blood-soaked hallway. The warrior turned a full circle, coming up on his feet again. Thick red fluid dripped from his sword. He licked a drop off and raised his blade in a salute to a wizard who stood further in the hall in front of him. The rogue wizard grinned, his hand outstretched palm up and fingers clenched victoriously, and then darted away to join yet another slaughter ahead.

The warrior paused for a moment, touching his burnt cheek, a strange feeling of elation washing him over. For a second there, just as the lightning sizzled his way, he thought his life was forfeit. And yet, the rogue wizard, a fellow Vhaerunite, had just in fact saved his life and blasted another petty spider kisser away. Team work and a common goal. The concept was quite alien to him… but somehow, he felt he just might get used to it. With a bloodthirsty grin spreading wide on his face, the warrior rushed after his wizard companion.

There was much blood to be shed today. He didn't want to miss out on it.

Similar sights could be seen all around the ground and the first floor of the House – silent and swift, two fractions of drow collided steel on steel, spell to boot and dagger to back. Most of the ground floor was shrouded in magical darkness – an innate ability that every drow, low or highborn possessed – and from that darkness, the gurgles and curses of the dying could be heard.

A female clad in chain mail, her throat cut so deep her head almost fell off, stared in her dying moment in shock and disbelief as her companion, a fellow door guard, struck her down and rushed off to join the ongoing rebellion. "_A female!_" her thoughts screamed as the last of her lifeblood left her cooling body, "_a female…_" The shock on the faces of several male soldiers who had died but a few seconds after mirrored her own as the treacherous guard ran them through, stepped over them and dashed away through the halls. A female…

But yes; strange as it may seem, among the rebellious Vhaerunites, there were females as well – the warriors; looked down upon and despised by the other, higher-ranking members of their gender, thus harboring hatred for the ways of L'loth maybe even greater than the one their male counterparts felt. They were few, but twice as ferocious. And twice as hungry for blood. Blood, that flowing in streams from underneath the doors of the guard room and sleeping quarters above. When the command to begin the attack was given, the assassins were the first ones to strike.

_& & & & &_

Tarnash paused to wipe hair and blood from his face. Behind him, he heard Gulthrys finishing yet another chant and he turned just in time to see the wizard grasp his house insignia tighter as the spell erupted around him. The weapon master smirked; he always suspected Gulthrys put in an additional enchantment or two when he was creating those. It was a House Wizard's job to imbue the insignias with special properties that were the trademark of the House. Few wizards missed out on the opportunity to add their own special touch to it, creating secret little back ups and a nifty little trick or two that could some day mean the difference between a given wizard's life and death. The enchantment in question obviously enhanced the effects of the Knock spell, for as soon as the final word left the wizard's mouth, all the locks around him erupted in clacks and clicks.

Making a show of a deep bowing gesture, Gulthrys pointed his hand at the first door to his left - the grand door to the priestesses' part of the House. "_After you,_" his other hand signaled.

Tarnash grinned but held his ground. A shadow slipped out of the corner, took the distance between Tarnash and the doors in two strides and crouched low. Eager smile on his lips, the rogue quickly disarmed the few traps that were still in place and, just to show his leader the way was now indeed safe, pressed the doorknob himself. Soundlessly, the doors opened an inch and next instant, the three of them, followed by another two warriors, formed a semi-circle at the entrance.

A wizard, a rogue and several fighters – such were almost all of the groups Tarnash divided his followers in. Better safe than sorry, as they say. And when a drow says something like that, the "sorry" party is almost always the opposite one. But before the party of five could enter, something happened.

Quicker than an eye could follow, a small shape formed in the darkness, leapt up and rushed straight into the center of the room. The shape of a half-mask with eye-slits burning a triumphant bloody gold. Next second, a most chilling, mocking and blood-curdling laughter erupted from it.

Tarnash looked in amazement as close to a dozen of priestesses jumped up from their beds and chairs and screamed in unison, completely overcame by the magical, fear-inspiring sound. The looks on their faces were those of purest horror. And the feeling in Tarnash's and his companions' chests was one of purest delight. Their god had joined the fight!

Even if it wasn't an avatar, but only a divine manifestation instead, it was still more than enough to fill his followers with a renewed vigor. The five stormed into the chamber laughing like demons of the Abyss. Spell and weapon, in a celebration of death.

By the time they were done, not one of the priestesses had been granted a clean death. Instead their bodies lay sprawled on the ground, twitching and squirming just like the males of the House once squirmed under their whips, while bloodied chunks of their own flesh – fingers, faces and intestines alike – shivered in pools of red. It would take them a while to die; they would feel every moment of it keenly.

Past that first, minor clergy room, lay a section of the House comprised of a huge corridor and numerous doors leading to the higher ranking House members' chambers. Yet once they emerged into it, Tarnash didn't start towards any of them. Leaving that part of the fighting for his troops to handle, the weapon master gave Gulthrys a signal to rally the soldiers and start "cleaning," while he rushed to the stairway and, taking two or even three steps at the time, ran up the stairs to the highest floor of the House – The floor where the throne room and the Matron's chamber was. The sounds of the fight had not yet reached it, but they would do so soon, and he had only little time left to take Zesyyr by surprise. And, he reminded himself sourly, take her alive. What was he supposed to do with her once he got her was still entirely beyond him, but… he just had to get to her first. He could always worry about the details later. And speaking of worries...

He could only hope that that blasted Nathyrra and her crew had already managed to take out the assassins in the city. Still, he knew for certain that at least one third of them were still in the House and, judging by an expertly backstabbed corpse of one of his own he had stepped over earlier, fully operational as well. Worse still, even if the higher ones were indeed taken out by now, there was still no sign of Cahlind. The fact that his trice-damned twin sister was still alive and about worried Tarnash more than a whole room of priestesses. Knowing her as well as he did, there was little doubt in his mind that by the time this was all over, Cahlind would prove to be much greater trouble than all his other opponents put together.

The fact that he found the guards outside the Matron's throne room dead when he climbed up didn't really make Tarnash feel much better.

**_& & & & &  
_**

Way before Tarnash and his crew even reached the first floor, let alone eviscerated a room full of priestesses, Kimmuriel smirked in amusement as he felt the uneasiness build up in the mind of the bodyguard in whose head his mind currently resided. He could've taken her mind over fully, yet with the slight possibility of the unwitting female resisting the attempt, he refrained from it. It was better to not alert Zesyyr in advance. And the uneasiness the bodyguard was experiencing was caused precisely by the Matron in question.

Looking through borrowed eyes, Kimmuriel studied the young Matron with rising interest, trying to take in every detail he could, for it would surely come in handy when the time comes for him to invade her mind as well.

Madness. That was the first and the strongest impression he got. Madness and uncertainty born out of desperate need to be in control, recognizing that she is not and stubborn refusal to accept that fact. "_She could have been a great Matron,_" a thought came to him unbidden, and he realized it was not his own but the guard's instead, coming to her mind due to the undercurrent of his own thoughts and curiosity. "_She could've been, but for the scar…_"

The scar… Kimmuriel remembered something like that being mentioned once or twice. Far as he understood, there was a row going on over the tiefling sometime ago and that shadowdancer was the one whose job was to handle Zesyyr in all that. Apparently, she handled her a bit more roughly than she should have, for the scar that she left the Matron with now ran much deeper than just her skin. It made the Matron feel vulnerable and uncertain, but above all, humiliated. And to humiliate a Matron was never a good idea.

In truth, Kimmuriel's feelings about it were quite controversial. On one side, he loathed the idea of a mere iblith being able to defeat a drow. But on the other, he found the idea of scarring a Matron to be quite a pleasant one.

Stretching his quite slender but nicely muscled body on the bed yet again (a sight that would undoubtedly send the blood of the females in the chamber his mind was in run considerably faster if only they had seen it), the psionic lazily took another sip of wine, licked his lips and focused on the far-away mind once more.

When he jumped out of bed several minutes later however, it was not a lazy, relaxed movement at all. But it did make him sweat in an instant and he was only grateful he took off his shirt prior to all that, lest his shirt would have gotten just as soaked as his hair and naked torso became. Too bad he didn't take his pants off as well.

**_& & & & &_**

_**

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_**The Dance Of Madness…**_

Green pommeled sword rested in her left hand, the dark pommeled one in her right. It was hard to tell any more whether the blades were extensions of their wielder or if the wielder was a mere extension of them. Oloth and Charr, Darkness and Venom, drifting through shadows blended into one – a mindless entity; a vengeance incarnate.

One, two, three… the guards fell like only so much flesh, not even knowing what struck them down. Three, maybe even four, before someone noticed at last that something was wrong. It didn't help much. Storming through the hallways, obscured from both normal and darkvision alike, Shi'van left naught but a bloodied trail in her wake. The fact that half of the bodies weren't even dead, but merely cut and that some of the blood that streamed behind her was also her own didn't bother her much. Actually, it didn't bother her at all, for she hardly noticed anyone or anything in the blind madness that overtook her.. There was only vengeance, shadows, and the dance of death.

The guards at the throne room doors fell to the ground almost simultaneously, one skewered through the gut, the other with her leg almost missing. Both screamed, but their slayer hardly cared. It didn't matter. Those who heard the screams would be joining them soon anyway.

One of the guards in the room behind cautiously opened the door for a few inches, her weapon ready to strike at even the slightest of movements.

Only a few inches was all it took for the murderous shadow to slip in, unheard and unseen… But not for long.

**_& & & & &_**

Kimmuriel sat hard on the bed sooner than he jumped from it, long strands of white hair hanging sweaty and tangled over his face, his breaths coming in shallow gasps and his black chest moving rapidly as he tried to come back to his senses. Rarely, if ever, had anyone seen the iron-disciplined psionic so out of control; but rarely, if ever, had Kimmuriel had a chance to experience death firsthand.

There was a scream, and the guard whose mind he was in snapped to attention. Another guard moved to the door but apparently, nothing was there. At least, nothing visible. Still fully alert, all the females, the Matron included, reached for their weapons or begun a spell. Kimmuriel's mind-vessel did likewise. For a second or two, nothing happened and then, all out of sudden, Kimmuriel/the bodyguard felt a sharp jab in his/her back. His(her) breathing imperiled, his(her) mouth filled with blood, sharp explosions of light flashed rapidly in front of his(her… both!) eyes. Vision blurring, sounds fading fast, it took all his training and steel-like self-discipline to detach himself from the sensations, to separate his own mind from hers and withdraw from it barely a second before he got to experience the final death.

Many a time, Kimmuriel killed with no weapons save for his mind, driving his thoughts and psychic energies as one might drive a dagger through the unsuspecting, defenseless victims' skulls. But every single time, it was he who was the weapon, it was he who was the spectator rather then the one experiencing the full depths of it himself. Every time… until now.

Struggling to take the control over his body fully, the psionic pushed himself off the bed and forced himself to stand up. In his chest, there were still the faint tinglings of the jab both he and the guard felt but a moment ago and with it also came a sensation of his very life being drained out of him. He didn't appreciate the feeling at all. It was way too similar to the work of another weapon he had known (though never felt its vicious powers himself) and that one, too, was wielded by an iblith who, ironically enough, was also a native of Calimport.

Gripping that thought tightly, finding the needed strength in the hatred he had always felt for said Calishite assassin, Kimmuriel finally found his balance once again. He ignored the ticklish lines of sweat that streamed down his naked chest and soaked the edge of his pants, focused tightly on that last image he saw in the Matron's throne room before his abrupt exit from the scene.

All the careful observations he had made obviously paid off, for it didn't take him more than a few seconds to envision the chamber fully. And as soon as he did, he channeled all his mind power at it and, with a shimmer of dimension-splitting soft light, a portal between a portal between his chamber and the other appeared in front of him.

It was fortunate he had brought up a Kinetic Barrier prior to entering the guard's mind in a first place. Wouldn't do any good to open a portal to an assassination scene without any protections about, even if the portal in question was to last only for a second or so.

**_& & & & &_**

SWISH!  
A blur of shadows and blood, Shi'van twisted and swirled as only an enraged desert cobra might, darkness and venom, Darkness and Venom, flying all around. By that time, most of the blood spilled was her own.

Two corpses and several about-to-bleed-to-death bodies lay on the ground. Some of them, not nearly as injured as they pretended to be, grasped healing potions from their belts. One was silently muttering an incantation, but whether it was a healing chant or a curse, only she could tell. One or two reached for their crossbows and had already fired at the madness-possessed shadow more than once. And they also scored a hit, more than once. But Shi'van was oblivious to any of it.

It is not said in vain that revenge is a season in hell.

SWISH!  
A saber cut Zesyyr's chest, sending her stumbling backwards. It was not a deep cut, a mere flesh wound really, but it sent the blood spraying nevertheless and the venomous bite made Zesyyr cry out in pain and rage. No matter how possessed the dancer was, the Matron's fury matched it fully. All the rage, all the madness erupted from both females at once and neither one of them bothered with faints and finesse as they had last time they clashed. No, it was a clash of a wild-eyed spider on one side, and a rabid viper on the other. The hissing song of death sounded all around the throne room.

A gold-eyed shadowy presence in the corner almost felt like humming to it. Had it only been more material and fully present on this plane of existence, it surely would have, too.

SWISH!  
A sharp snarl escaped the shadow's lips as she plunged her blades forward, aiming for the heart of Matron Zesyyr in her throne room/aiming for the heart of Eldath Ra'sin in the underground ruins beneath an oasis a few miles outside Calimport.

But the blades never reached Ra'sin, and the blades never reached Zesyyr either, for in a split second, as the Matron jumped out of the blades' reach with a snarl of her own, a shimmer of light appeared behind her back, and she fell right through it.

Next instant, the portal closed shut.

**_& & & & &_**

Kimmuriel grabbed the female by the back of her robes and roughly yanked her back, pulling her close to his body and at the same time, pressing a dagger to her throat with his other hand. Zesyyr gave a startled cry, her senses completely blurred and her entire body suddenly weak from the shock of passing through a psionic-created portal. She wasn't even fully aware yet that she was not in her throne room any more. Cold steel on her throat did give her a clue, though.

An even more pointed clue followed but a moment after, as her head suddenly felt as if that same dagger just got shoved through it. It felt as if her brain would explode.

Angered and still thoroughly shaken from his near-death experience, Kimmuriel lashed out with his mind hard, driving it into the female's brain with all the power he had. After all, someone had to pay for all the trouble he had just gone through.

It was a good thing that the room was as secluded as it was. Had it not been so, half of the Underdark would have likely been awakened by the scream that erupted from it – an unmistakable high-pitched sound of someone just having her brain shattered to pieces.

**_& & & & &_**

Tarnash entered the throne room cautiously, flanked closely by two of his warriors that had waited for him at the midsection of the stairs. There was no sign of Zesyyr inside. But there were bodies on the floor. Some were dead, one just about to get up again, three still on the ground but their crossbows ready and, the moment Tarnash entered, trained on him in a snap. But above all, there was a swirling shadow at the far side of the room, turning around as the weapon master entered and… CHARGING RIGHT AT HIM!

"_Damn!_" was all he could hiss before his assailant reached him, an all too familiar saber sweeping high at his throat.

It was only his battle-honed reflexes and a warrior's instinct that allowed Tarnash to block the attack. And it was only his suddenly heightened sense of camaraderie, granted to him by the past hour or so of fighting alongside his fellow Vhaerunites that saved Shi'van from taking his other blade fully in the gut. Things being the way they were, however, Tarnash blocked her attack sending her saber flying wide and out of her grasp but instead of cutting her down merely hit her hard in the face with the flat and the pommel of his other sword – ironically enough, the same sword she herself had given him but a day ago. She didn't even try to dodge the counter-attack, let alone make an attempt to parry.

Twice, Tarnash reflected; twice now she had given him the opportunity to kill her and twice now, he refrained from doing so. Third time, he promised himself somberly, he would take her up on the offer. But not just yet, he decided and shouted for his soldiers to get out just as both of them plunged forward, ready to skewer their leader's opponent dead.

A less disciplined warrior might have failed to obey that command and especially on such short notice. These two, however, were not minor warriors and were thus able to change the direction of their simultaneous attacks even at the last instant and strike the two crossbow-wielding females instead.

Even if they had been less skilled or disciplined, chances are they would've still done it – The tone in which the command was given could be nothing but obeyed.

Carried by the strength of the blow, her head suddenly very dizzy and her knees feeling like so much pulp, Shi'van half-stumbled, half-flew backwards, crashed against the wall and slumped down. It didn't take her long to rise back on her feet again, the madness-fueled strength coursing her beaten body as only lava from a freshly awakened volcano might. It was fast enough a movement, yet not nearly as fast as usual. By the time she was up and groggily shaking her head, a gout of blood pouring out of her nose and running down her chin and neck, the warriors had already left the throne room and only she and Tarnash remained.

Tarnash stood with both of his swords ready to snap up, yet his stance was more casual than battle-ready as he intently observed the shadowdancer. She was bleeding. Badly. None of the crossbow bolts dug in too deeply, obviously, for none were sticking out anymore, yet the gaps they left in their wake as they fell out sent thin streams of blood pouring out. Whip marks on the dancer's face and chest, coupled with more than a dozen small cuts and hacks all over her body didn't make her a much prettier sight, either. There was also a shallow, acid-bitten gash running the length of her left arm, but Tarnash couldn't connect that wound with anything she might have received in battle. Most likely, it was self-inflicted.

None of the wounds were lethal as such, but combined, they were deadly. It was only the adrenalin rush that kept her standing now, Tarnash knew, but as soon as it left her, so would her life.

Apparently, she was still too far out of it to really notice any of that, for no sooner than she was up, she was out for his blood again. But… he might not have to kill her just yet; this time, she didn't charge at him blindly, but rather began swirling her blades around, settling into the deadly dancing pattern first. Whatever inner music she was dancing to, Tarnash was pretty sure he wouldn't like to hear it himself. But still, the fact that she showed a bit more cautiousness this time made him believe there might be some sane part of her left yet. And thus, his swords were only half-raised and he made no move to attack.

"_Don't make me kill you with your own blade,_" he sneered, hoping his words would reach whatever passed for her sanity and maybe snap her out of her soul-consuming madness. If someone had asked him right then just why he bothered at all, he honestly wouldn't know what to say. However, he did know he would most probably run the one who had asked straight through.

"_If you feel like being insane for much longer, go be so somewhere else,_" he growled silently, seeing she was still circling.

She lunged forward and got another flat-bladed slap in the face for her effort.

"_And should you decide to give sanity a shot instead, you might as well be of some use and tell me just where the heck Zesyyr is!_" the weapon master snarled, his eyes threateningly narrow. His muscles twitched beneath the black skin of his arms, ready to plunge the blades forth and this time, the edged part of them first. If she tried to attack again, those blades would be the last thing she would ever see.

Shi'van blinked through the blood-red haze in her eyes. In front of her, she could only make out a blurry shape that already struck her and sent her flying backwards twice in a row. Something… something about that whole scene seemed strangely familiar. The shattered pieces of her mind began swirling about, not much unlike the images of the waking world swirling in front of her eyes.

_Where the heck was Ra'sin?_ – Laughing in the ruins. _And why was he laughing?_ –Because he had… No! No, that wasn't it. Those weren't the words she heard.

_Where the heck was… Zesyyr?_

Zesyyr…? Zesyyr…

Like shards of a broken mirror, like pieces of a chaos-made puzzle, bits and pieces of reality within began falling together again. Many were broken, many overlapped, many were still missing and many more just didn't fit, but patch-work as it was, it was still coming together again. The awkward stitches sewing them loosely into a tapestry that, with some good will, could be said to resemble sanity once more.

Drogan! The name and the image that accompanied it formed in her head as her vision cleared somewhat. Drogan… No, it wasn't him that was standing In front of her now, but this entire scene, the whole situation reminded her keenly of her first meeting with the old dwarf. And another stitch closed tight.

Tarnash… That was the one in front of her! Was it the pain of her wounds finally reaching through that gave her mind the so-needed kick and sent it flying through almost twenty years of splintered memories and into here and now again? Or was it perhaps the fleeting image of a shadowy half-mask lingering for a moment on the face of the one in front of her? It didn't matter. Was that half-mask just the trick of her blur-filled eyes, just a product of her dazed imagination or something more real and tangible than that? It didn't matter either. Another patch stitched into place, and the tip of her remaining saber slowly went down at last.

The dancer opened her eyes.

Tarnash held his breath as he intently observed what he knew to be an inner battle of some sorts. A twitch of a muscle, a shake of her head – those were the only outward signs of madness and sanity wrestling within. Only when the tip of her blade went down, Tarnash knew which one prevailed… or, at least, gained the upper hand for a while. And only then did the tips of his swords touch the ground as well.

And the tips gave a quiet screech on the floor as the dancer raised her head and looked him fully in the eye.

Gghhhg! Those dark orbs again! He just couldn't decide if he hated them more when they were mad or dead. Right now, they were both.

"_Well?_" he prompted, "_Where the fuck is she?_"

Shi'van shook her head, trying to clear it further. "_Portal..._" she croaked at length, nodding towards the far end of the room.

Tarnash clenched his teeth. "_Vith!_"

A sound to his right alerted him to a guard still writhing on the floor. She reached for a dagger concealed in her bracer and was trying to launch it his way. With hardly an effort, Tarnash kicked the sharp object out of her hand and in a quick sword sweep, took the offending limb off. The guard screamed in protest, but he paid it no heed as he casually planted a foot on her chest, bent down and snatched a healing potion from her belt. Shi'van was just about ready to fall down on her knees. Tarnash strode over to her.

The dancer's body was cooling now, sweat and blood running down in thin streams and forming small salty puddles on the ground around her feet. Her wounds and all the pain that accompanied them were catching up with her at last.

"_Get out of here,_" Tarnash suggested quietly as he offered her the potion. She still wasn't quite sane yet and he didn't need another madness-ridden creature on the loose here, not to even mention the fact that Shi'van hardly knew which ones were enemies and which ones allies in here. It wasn't like there was ever much difference anyway. But still, Tarnash really didn't want his ranks diminished more than absolutely necessary, especially not in such a stupid way.

Shi'van made no move to take the potion he held. An angry light lit up in his eyes. Roughly, he shoved the potion into her chest, pushing her a shaky step back.

"_Or do I shove it down your throat myself!_" he growled, "_While it's still in the bottle._"

This time, she took it.

Tarnash turned away and cursed in frustration. Damn! Why did everything have to go wrong today? He spun back to Shi'van.

"_Find her,_" he said sharply. "_She couldn't have left the city. She's gotta be around here somewhere._" He noted with some satisfaction that Shi'van already gulped down the potion and was, in fact, searching the floor for another one. He wasn't overly satisfied with the look she gave him at his words, though.

"_Find her, dammit!_" he snapped. "_And bring her alive,_" he added darkly, happy with the prospect about as much as Shi'van was. "_The moon dancers want to ask her a few things,_" he explained a bit more calmly. Shi'van's eyes were still two pools of darkness. And there was a dead matron in them.

Tarnash stared at her intently. "_They. Want. Her. Alive,_" he said slowly, emphasizing every word. "_We'll get her back once they're done._" He sighed and shook his head. "_If there's time and a chance, you can have her,_" he offered, "_Just as long as you give me the head when you're through._"

She stared at him for a while longer, the void of her eyes almost sucking him in. "_Fine,_" she grumbled at length, spun on her heel and headed for the door.

Tarnash watched her shuddering movements and smirked darkly, shaking his head. It was obvious that, regardless that he was the target of her mindless attacks, it wasn't really him she was aiming at. "_Just who were you fighting, I wonder?_" he whispered to himself. Quiet as it was, the sound of his words still reached her and she stopped few feet short of the door.

"_Ra'sin._" Her voice was quiet and flat as a board.

Tarnash cocked his head, his face mildly curious. He had heard Nathyrra's report, after all. "_The mutilated guy?_"he inquired, folding his arms across his chest. "_So who was he, really?_"

"_A traitor._" Still quiet. Still flat. A tad bit darker this time.

Tarnash chuckled softly. "_So? He's dead. What's the point?_"

Shi'van half-turned and regarded the weapon master blankly. Thousands of answers sprang up in her mind at once, yet none managed to reach her tongue. What was the point indeed?

"_No point,_" she muttered, shaking her head slightly. "_I'm just insane, is all,_" she shrugged and licked the blood off her split lip. "_I'll get the bitch,_" she promised more firmly.

"_Alive,_" Tarnash reminded. The dancer nodded and blended away.

The weapon master sighed. That she was insane, that much he could see himself. Still, he suspected all this ran much deeper than just an old grudge and vengeance overdue. How deep, however, he had neither the time nor curiosity to try and pry out. His own body was cooling In the past couple of minutes, the pain of his wounds begun kicking in and his muscles begun growling in protest to the continued strain they were being put through during all the fighting he had done. Not about to let himself cool any further, Tarnash scooped up another potion or two, gulped the lightest one down and headed for the door.

Cahlind was still in the House somewhere. He knew for certain that she wasn't In the throne room, for if she had been, then either hers or Shi'van's body would have been stretched across it when he had entered, and thus, his assassin-priestess sister was still alive and about. And with Zesyyr gone, he would have no option but to try and take her alive. Not an easy task by any measure and none too pleasant either. His mood grew increasingly foul.

Two warriors waiting for him out front looked at him questioningly as he stepped through. "_All clear,_" one of them signaled, pointing at the surrounding corridors. Fine.

"_Dungeons,_" he signaled briskly, and soon, all three were on their way down, rushing to join the troops waiting there, getting ready to storm through the darkest, most secluded and most horrid place of the entire Maeviir compound.

Even as used to torture as they were, even being not in the least non-sadistic themselves, both Tarnash and his companions knew that they would not enjoy the sights they were about to see.

**_& & & & &_**

The soldiers were glancing around anxiously. Imloth placed his hands closer to his swords and shot a quick glance Valen's way. The tiefling nodded slightly and he and his gladiators inched closer to the Maeviir group. It was over two hours since Tarnash left the training grounds and went into the House. He still hadn't returned. Maeviir soldiers were growing more uneasy by minute. It was only a matter of time before their uneasiness erupted into something more violent.

Valen's nostrils widened as he smelled the scent of growing tension. There was a taste of blood hanging low in the air. Imloth's jaw muscle twitched. "_Any moment now,_" he thought to himself, "_Any moment now, the real trouble will begin. Damn you, mask-swindler, what the fuck's taking you so long! _"

Valen cast a quick glance to the side, his gaze piercing deep into the shadows where, some hours ago, he dumped Karandras flat on his shady butt. The beast hadn't left the spot since. At first, he was growling and bristling his fur at the tiefling, bearing his fangs every time the tiefling passed too close. But then, he abruptly stopped and slumped down instead, his fur still bristled, his muzzle a-twitch and eyes glowing the deepest, burning gold.

Usually, the shadow beast was as cocky as his mistress was foul-mouthed, but now, it was naught but sinister dark. Valen suspected Karandras's sudden mood change had something… no, everything to do with Shi'van's… Wherever she was at the moment.

The thought worried Valen more than he cared to admit.

**_& & & & &_**

A cone of black fire shot out of the wand in the priestess's hand and blew several Vhaerunites away, both from her vicinity and this life as well.

The clergy of L'loth was without its powers since their goddess disappeared, but their items still functioned unhindered. Besides, the power of most of the lower-circles' spells came not directly from the goddess but from her handmaidens and lesser servants instead. Crippled as they were, the priestesses of L'loth were still quite capable of giving a kick or two. The smoldering corpses of many Vhaeraun-following, rebellious males sprawled and gutted on the lower dungeons floor served as a pointed remainder of that fact.

Three other females joined the first one and together, the four soon pushed the invading force back into the hall and out of the large chamber the females were in. More L'lothians, male and female alike, prepared their spells and weapons further within the chamber, fully confident that they would hold out against this preposterous attack and show the impudent mask-worshiping fools where the might of the drow truly lay.

A rogue fell to his knee, clutching at the wound on his hip. There was no way he could possibly continue fighting now. He flinched as a pair of boots stopped at his side. It was only common among the drow – those who are too incapacitated to fight would most often be killed by their own companions. The male had no reason to expect any different fate. But the expected strike did not come.

A healing flask landed at the rogue's feet. "_Gather the weapons,_" Tarnash ordered, pointing his blood-dripping sword to the corpses around. "_And gather the potions. Whoever can walk after one, arm them and let them join the fight._"

The rogue raised his head and nodded, grabbing the potion at hand. Tarnash earned another score.

It wasn't mercy that guided his actions, but pure reason. There were many dead this day, and there would be even more by the time the little blood-party came to an end. It was only in his best interest to have as many troops as possible survive and remain at his side. And his soldiers knew it too; never did any of them think for even a second that their leader was kind or compassionate or that their lives were spared out of some grand companionship he might have felt. No, they knew very well he was only being practical, but still, it was much more than many of those in command ever did, and thus, their loyalty and respect for Tarnash only grew. For whatever reasons, the weapon master still looked after his own.

It was fortunate that, aside from an impressive display of wicked-tipped instruments, biting acids, barbed whips and other pain-inflicting devices, every torture chamber also had a shelf with revival potions on it - the regenerative brews that would keep the victims conscious through even the greatest of pains and vilest of tortures and still have them alive and ready for another round.

The Vhaerunite leader in question scanned the situation at hand. Almost a full half of his troops were halfway through the lower dungeons by now. Almost one third of them were now dead. Not such a bad score really, given the fact that half of the small side rooms in which the prisoners were given "special attention" by the appointed dungeon-keeping priestesses were open and cleaned out, all the victims that could still be revived were taken out, armed, and offered the chance to strike against their tormentors.

Half down, half to go. But how well they would go depended largely on how they pushed through the jam they found themselves in. A huge central chamber barred their way further into the dungeon and the defenders within fought ferociously as a displacer beast defending its cubs. And about as deadly.

Three times already, they managed to push the invaders back and out of the chamber. Unless they struck again, and struck very hard at that, the spider kissers within would undoubtedly barricade themselves inside. Should they be allowed to succeed in doing so, they could then hold out for days. And days, the invaders did not have. They didn't even have a full hour to finish what they started and still get back to the training grounds in so-so shape to intimidate the remainder of the House troops into obedience.

Tarnash caught Gulthrys' attention for a moment and in a few quick signals relayed to him the plan. They would strike out one more time and this time, they would have to push through. As soon as they were in, Gulthrys and a few others were to follow Tarnash in a rush through the chamber and reach the other side. Once there, they could bar the door behind them, leave their troops to hold out for a while and set about quickly freeing the prisoners in the other part of the dungeons. That way, those inside the chamber would soon be facing the attacks from both sides of the room and in that case, their chances for surviving would be next to nothing.

Gulthrys nodded his acknowledgement. Tarnash raised both his blades high in the air, and with a wrathful smile, snarled the command to charge.

Those within the chamber were fully devout to kissing the butt of a spider. Those outside were more intent on giving it a good kick instead.

**_& & & & &_**

Shi'van swooned mightily and leaned against the wall for support. She had no idea for how long she had been randomly stalking the streets, but it had to have been over a half an hour; she still had no clue where Zesyyr might be. Not that it mattered; she wasn't really searching anyway.

She was still in a haze, and dizzier than ever. Even if the healing potions did their work, the blood loss was taking its toll. She now knew she should have stayed in the House for a while longer and drained a Maeviir or two dry with her blade. Drain them with Darkness; suck their lives and their souls into a void… so they would become like her.

Darkness. Emptiness. Void… That was all she had left. The flood of madness subsiding, the unexpected roar of rage burnt out, all that was left now was the soul-shattering vacuum - deep, silent and complete. Nothingness… like the poem she once wrote:

_I'm gathering the remnants of reason  
On a dusty road to hell  
The red wind is bringing  
A sour breath of madness  
I step into white unconsciousness  
And crystals of sanity shatter  
Eons are passing me by  
I've been here for much too long  
In my eyes, the dying stars  
Frail extension of some distant dimension  
While on the dusty road to hell  
I gather the remnants of reason_

Gather the remnants of reason… and hold on to them tight, before they get sucked into the void too deep, and out of her reach for good. She needed to focus, she needed to occupy herself with something, to give some point and purpose to her continued existence now. She needed… Karandras!

_& & & & &_

Back in the courtyard, one tiefling blinked in astonishment as up-until-then-still dark shape leapt out of the shadow and blended into the next too quick for even his keen eye to follow.

So, Shi'van must have called her companion back to her side, Valen mused, but if that was a good sign or not, he had no way of telling.

Hopefully, it wouldn't turn out too bad.

**_& & & & &_**

**_Sanctity Of Wrath…_**

Tarnash felt his throat constrict. Snarling, he crouched down on one knee and grabbed the male by the back of his neck. The male's head lolled forward and leaned against Tanash's chest.

"_You're beyond help,_" Tarnash whispered into his ear, his other hand pressing a dagger close to the other male's chest. And the unfortunate male was beyond any help indeed.

A moment ago, Tarnash kicked another torture chamber door open, a row of already opened ones stretching behind him. Almost all of them were occupied. Now, they were all empty, their former inhabitants (or, at least, those who could still walk after one regenerative potion was shoved down their throats) armed and eager to deal death. Already, a small squad of unarmored, fire-eyed ex-torture toys were charging back the same way Tarnash and few of his soldiers came, straight ahead and towards the large, spider-littered chamber. Chances were that many, if not all of its occupants would find themselves in the same, tight rooms, only this time around, looking at them from the other side of the shackles. And may they scream good and loud, Tarnash thought with bitter delight.

Even if he could (questionable!) stop his troops from running amok now, he wouldn't do it. Their wrath was fully unleashed; let them have it their way… And let the spider kissers get what's coming to them as well. Let them scream their lungs out – just like the male in front of him had.

Like any drow, Tarnash was no stranger to torture, and like any drow male, he wasn't a stranger to performing it as well as receiving. There was no doubt that as much as he hated being on the receiving end, that much he enjoyed being on the delivering end. But, there was a difference.

There were several different kinds of torture, as far as Tarnash was concerned. There was torture for practice, for young drow to learn the basics of the trade. Mostly, slaves of the lesser races were being used for this. Then, there was torture for practical, information-gaining purposes, which was also fine. Then, there was such thing as _jivvin_, a game, an amusing cruelty, a way to pass some quality time when other pass-times became scarce or a bit too boring. There was also such a thing as a torture becoming a pure art form – something very few were skilled enough to accomplish, but their handiwork was indeed to be respected as an art it was.

And then, there was this – a torture out of pure pettiness. For that last category, even if it was done professionally, Tarnash had no respect at all.

By this time, Tarnash had seen just about everything there was to be seen in the dungeon. He had seen victims with their skin flayed, inch by inch with the usage of various acids and barbed tools; he had seen them with their teeth broken and pulled out, their fingers broken or cut off all together, their bellies opened and the intestines slowly pulled out; he had seen them worked with hot, blazing iron and then ice in turn; he had seen their hapless bodies cut into pieces; he had seen them with chunks of muscle removed and open wounds treated with steaming sulfur; he had seen them being slowly eaten alive by spiders and maggots alike; he had seen them with their genitalia split in two. He had seen it all, and wasn't disturbed, but this last sight made him sick and red with rage.

It wasn't the "what" that made Tarnash so furious, it was the "why" and "who" - The final pebble that broke his rothe back.

The victim in front of him was male, the last male to be dragged down there for Zesyyr's personal pleasure. He was there because he didn't show his Matron the proper respect.

His arms were spread wide and chained to the wall behind, forcing him into a kneeling position – a position a male should assume when in front of a female. His knee-caps were bashed in; almost his full weight rested on them.

He had to be taught proper respect - his entire body was covered in whip marks. Barely any part of it still had some skin. His once hard muscles were cut, torn and raked, the ends of his nerves expertly pierced with sharp, heated needles. Even breathing was an agony to him, and gorged as he was with sustainer potions, he would keep breathing for days to come.

He was accused of whispering – he had no more lips to whisper with. He talked when it wasn't his place and spoke venomous words – his tongue stuck out of his lipless mouth, split in two as that of a snake. He could still signal his thoughts – his fingers were no more.

He was accused of impudence: he failed to lower his gaze when he should have. Now, he could never close his eyes again: his eyelids were removed. Lidless, his eyes produced tears and those tears mingled with blood that streamed down his unprotected eyes until he could cry no more. Both tears and blood dried, wounding his eyes even further.

He was accused, prosecuted and convicted, all in a single day, and his accuser, judge and executioner was one and the same – Zesyyr, the worst, most stupid Maeviir Matron ever. And now, he was truly beyond any help. There was only one thing Tarnash could do for him.

He would have it if the male could at least die free, but the shackles were locked tight and there was not much time. "_You're beyond help. Only the Masked Lord can give you relief now,_" Tarnash whispered into the male's ear, still holding the back of his neck, pressing the male's head close to his own chest and pressing a dagger against him.

If he hadn't been holding him so close, Tarnash would've never felt the slightest of nods the male gave at his words. But feel it he did and, with a curse and a silent prayer, he drove the blade straight through the male's heart. Blood splashed his fingers and poured down the blade, his hand, and the dagger hilt he held. Without a sound, the body went limp in his arms. And with a growl of purest hatred, Tarnash rose up and stormed through the door, with a solemn promise to himself that, once his troops bind the spider kissers in their own chains, he would be the first to heat the iron.

He burst out into the corridor just in time to see a spider kisser to his right and Gulthrys launching a spell to his left. Next instant, the spider kisser went flying back, dead before she even touched the ground and Gulthrys suddenly had his mouth filled with blood.

**_& & & & &_**

Karandras sniffed the air and growled. Beside him, Shi'van stared blankly at the empty street. Hearing the growl, she turned a questioning gaze Karandras' way. She needn't have bothered – linked as they were, Karandras already knew her thoughts.

No, he hadn't found Zesyyr's scent.

Shi'van looked away and bit her cracked lip. Few drops of blood slid down her teeth. Karandras muzzled her shoulder.

_What?_ She didn't have to say it. Her mind was speaking for her.

_Think. Focus. _They weren't words as such, merely imparted ideas of them. And behind those words came a hint of an idea.

Shi'van closed her eyes, allowing her companion deeper into her mind, inviting him in and letting him search for what he needed in there.

The memory of the throne room began taking shape (right after Karandras managed to chase away the weird, imaginary image of the Reaper fastening a mop to the butt end of his scythe and grumblingly scrubbing the floor). It was blurry at first, obscured by the blood-red haze, but as Karandras dug deeper into it, the image begun to clear.

Roughly speaking, there are two kinds of memories. First, there are those that one can bring up at will, clear or semi-clear images, scents and sounds of events past. With few exceptions, those memories are often distorted, echoes of perceptions colored by one's own feelings and thoughts and as such, unreliable. But, there is also the other kind.

The other kind of memories are the kind imprinted directly into one's subconscious; the clear, accurate images that rarely even reach the front line of the brain. Those memories are created in a split second, and rarely, if ever, is one even aware of their existence. Sharp and unobscured, those memories represent the clearest and most reliable pictures of what really happened in the past. And those were the memories Karandras was now trying to reach.

The image of the throne room became clearer.

Zesyyr snarled and stumbled backwards. Shi'van pressed forward with her attack. A shimmer of light appeared in the background... _Stop!_

The picture froze and Karandras focused on it fully. There was a portal. Zesyyr was on one side of it, and on the other side…

The picture turned even sharper. There was a portal and behind it… there was a room. It was relatively small. A portion of a bed could be seen in the corner. A desk was right next to it. In front of the desk, there was a figure. A male, bare-chested and black-skinned, his face obscured by strands of wet hair. A faint smell of sweat was coming from him. The sound of harsh breaths could be heard. Annoyance was in the air.

The… walls. Walls of the room…. They were… familiar somehow, their texture, their color, their carvings… And the smell. The smell of that room, it was familiar also. Shi'van couldn't have smelled it, her olfactory senses far inferior to those of her shadow companion. But she could still inhale it, and now, Karandras was able to taste their full aroma in his nasal channels. The sights, the sounds, the smells, all of it came at him at once and in a sudden "moment of truth", he recognized the place. – The temple! Zesyyr fell back into the temple!

The moment Karandras realized it, so did Shi'van and in a second of mutual understanding, the two leapt up as one and headed straight for the back entrance of the temple.

And woe to Zesyyr once they arrived.

**_& & & & &_**

Gulthrys fell on his knees, a gust of blood in his mouth, his eyes frozen in puzzlement and pain. Tarnash jumped at his side.

A moment later, Tarnash's own mouth turned bloody as a pair of kukris pierced his chest from behind. Vision suddenly a-blur, he jerked once and, as his knees began giving in, the sound of soft, mocking laughter reached his ears. The laughter he knew well.

The laughter of his twin…

* * *

_Oh, am I wicked, eh? Ending the chapter like this… Well, the continuation is just a click away. Keep that in mind when you start thinking about whether you should review or not! ;)_

_P.S. Answers to your reviews are, as ever, at the end of the chapter. That means - next page._


	28. Proditores Punientur continued

**_(still) Proditores Punientur _**

**_Sanctity Of Wrath… (continued)_**

Cahlind chuckled evilly and pushed her kukris deeper, driving them in Tarnash's back all the way to their hilts. Ah, but this was simply too easy. And so, so very sweet.

Stupid male. For all his experience and wizardly prowess, he was still no match for her skill. One simple trap – that was all it took to bring the House Wizard down. Well, not that simple a trap, but still… One loose brick, one secret trigger and one sharp blade contained within, tipped with venom and with a magic-defying jewel imbedded in its hilt. Nothing easier than to wait on the ceiling, invisible and silent, held fast by spider-like goo - the same sticky matter that covered the sacred creatures' silken webs and also filled the tiny sacks in her enchanted, fingerless gloves. It was only a matter of proper timing. A flick of a wrist, a trigger pressed, and the spring mechanism launched the blade straight through the wizard's back, negating the Stoneskin and all other protections he had about. The look in the wizard's eyes as he felt the blade dive in was so satisfying she wanted to purr.

L'loth, but this was so delicious. They should really rebel more often.

Feeling her brother's body go limp, Cahlind shoved her blades upwards into his lungs, thus forcing his upper body to lean slightly backwards and lean with more weight on the hilts she was holding. Her move prevented him from falling to his knees before she wanted. It was a beautiful moment. Cahlind wished to savor it a bit longer.

"_Really, little brother,_" she whispered sweetly into the dying weapon master's ear, "_I should've done this much sooner._" Her voice became a chuckle, "_I should have never allowed you to leave our mother's womb in the first place. Not alive, anyway._"

Tarnash gurgled in protest. In retrospect, he almost didn't leave the womb alive at all.

Twins were a rare thing among the drow; drow infants were fighting each other even while still in the womb. It was a rare thing for both babies to survive long enough to be born. It was almost unheard of for both to be female; chances were only a little better for both to be male. If one was male and one female, usually only the female would get to see the darkness outside.

It was a pure miracle Tarnash was even born. The first baby, the female, came out of the womb well-nourished and big. The male that followed some minutes after (and was thus always the "little" brother) was weak and thin, the umbilical cord strung tightly about his neck and his face not healthy black, but bluish-grey from the lack of air.

It was a miracle he was born. The fact that he survived his first year of life was an even greater one. His mother was never really pleased about the fact. His sister, however, simply adored it. After all, it is not like you get to have your own living toy to torture and molest every day.

It is said that in your moment of death, your whole life flashes in front of your eyes. Those earliest memories now flashed brightly through Tarnash's mind, as well as the memory of having another pair of blades stuck in his back barely few months ago. Damn! He really hated dying! And getting killed by his own sister didn't make him feel much better about it. On the contrary, it made him very, very pissed.

And his anger gave him strength to draw another breath.

"_Still struggling, __dalninuk?_" taunted Cahlind "_Why, isn't that sweet?_" she gave her blades a jerk. Tarnash growled in pain. "_Warrior to the bitter end. All this time, Tarnash,_" she sighed, "_and you still haven't learned your place. What a pity. We could've had such a future together._"

"_As your slave?_" Tarnash managed to growl through the blood in his throat. "_No thanks. I'd rather pass._"

"_Oh, you will pass.._" Cahlind snickered, "_…away. And you are a slave, Tarnash,_" she added more sharply, "_You're just a male._"

Tarnash snorted and spat blood. His ears began buzzing loudly. "_Shove it,_" he croaked.

"_Asanque,_" Cahlind purred and shoved her blades down a bit, letting her brother's body sink to the floor.

"_Argh!_"

"_Poor fool,_" she scolded him icily, "_You just never learned. Honestly, don't you think it would have been much better for you if I drained all your nourishment after all…_"

_Bitch!_ _I should've drained you instead… I should've drained you dry… _

The buzz in his ears exploded.

( "…_**I** CAN DRAIN HER DRY!..."_)

Not even fully aware of his actions, not even sure whose voice he heard, Tarnash gripped the slipping hilt of his right-handed sword and, with his last ounce of strength, turned the blade backwards and drove it straight into his stunned sister's belly. His left hand followed the movement and he slammed his palm over the pommel, driving the blade even further inside.

Cahlind cried out in pain and shock, but her scream came out as naught but a startled moan. Her voice had failed her. Her body followed suit.

Tarnash felt the strength pour into his hand, a sudden rush of vitality rushing up his arm, his shoulder and spreading through his entire body in a mighty, unstoppable flood. His heart begun pumping the blood more furiously, his vision sharpened again and his mind rapidly cleared.

The kukris were still in his chest. With the surge of the new-found strength, he pushed his blade hard, driving both his sister and her weapons away.

Cahlind slammed into the wall and gasped for breath. Half-rising, Tarnash pressed harder until he felt the tip of the sword coming out the other side of her chest and hit the wall behind.

"_S… Sacrilege…_" the assassin-priestess gasped weakly.

"_Indeed._" His back still turned to her, Tarnash's voice was one of purest delight.

Slowly, he pulled himself fully up again and when he finally spun about to face her, she could see his bloodied grin, the wicked light burning in his eyes and a shady form of half-mask forming over his face. Roughly, he grabbed her hair and yanked her forward, away from the wall and impaled her on his blade fully.

He let her sink to the floor slowly, sliding down the length of his sword; the slithery sound of the fall music to his ears. He savored the look of deepest fear in her wide-eyed stare as the last of her life was leaving her. He spat in her face and offered words of farewell.

"_You know, you were right after all. You really should have killed me while we were still in the womb._"

The mocking words of her brother pierced through her ears like heated needles; his chilling snicker the last sound she heard before finally slipping into the blackness of death.

_& & & _

A female sank to her knees, defenseless and humiliated in her defeat. And a male rose up from his knees, the female's own lifeblood giving him strength to prevail. And now, in his victory, he loomed over her feeble corpse like a dark herald of things to come.

In hindsight, there was something quite poetic about the scene.

**_& & & & &_**

Zesyyr wept on the floor, curled up in a fetal position and trembling like a jelly cube. Her mind was all but turned into one. Above her, Kimmuriel was smirking a wicked smirk smirk as he raked her brain with surgical precision.

The psionic was a professional. He was also angry. The female on the floor served as a perfect focus for it.

His mind traveled the twists and turns of her winding inner highway, taking breaks to peek into side roads and hidden tunnels and crushing all her defenses as he went along. Enjoying every sadistic moment, the psionic reached for the knowledge he sought but also, took time to dig deeply into every last fear, every last insanity and every inner turmoil he had encountered so far. He peeled the lairs of soft, self-told lies from them, baring them naked and raw and forcing the female to look at them in their full, ugly splendor. All the pettiness, all the weakness, all the self-deceit and mind-wrecking truths of her existence flashed in front of Zesyyr's mind eye and she was forced to stare at every last one of them fully.

Learning the truth about yourself is never easy. If you are a power-drunk and self-obsessed drow female, fully believing your own importance and station, things get substantially worse.

Weak, feeble and pathetic, disrespected and laughed at behind her back – that was the truth Matron Zesyyr was now facing. Through it all, the cruel psionic had not once touched her pride and thus, she was still struggling. She was forced to look at it, to hate it, to loath it, but still, she was left the ability to defy it. Or, more accurately, to try defying it, even while knowing full well it was in vain. She longed to prove it wrong, still attempted to keep the self-made image of her splendor alive.

It was a cruel and difficult game to play with one's mind. Kimmuriel Oblodra was more than up to the task.

And then he spotted a pair of yellow-glowing eyes observing him from the shadows.

Karandras squinted as the psionic paused to look at him, giving a temporary break to the sobbing bundle on the floor. Kimmuriel hissed and pulled out of her mind all together, focusing instead on bringing his Kinetic Barrier back up again. He knew what shadow fiends were, and he suspected he knew quite well who (or what) was the creature in front of him. However, he had no idea what he could expect to happen next and he silently cursed himself for getting so absorbed in the torture he forgot to look around more often. And also, he marked this slip in security as an extra charge for the Seer. High extra, if it proved the slip was in fact intentional.

Karandras grinned widely, but made no other moves. A quick glance the beast threw at the door, however, gave Kimmuriel a clue. His muscles tense, he followed the shadow wolf's gaze and raised an eyebrow in expectation. Karandras took this to be as acknowledging and inviting a gesture he would get and quickly imparted the message to Shi'van.

Next moment, the knob turned slightly and soundlessly, the door to the room opened.

Shi'van stared at the psionic blankly, her eyes twin pools of frozen impassiveness. A tiny amused flicker passed them briefly as her eyes passed over the writhing figure on the floor.

"_Hate to spoil your party, whoever you are,_" she said flatly, not taking her eyes off Zesyyr, "_But the Matron's presence is required back in her House now._" There was a slightest tone of disappointment evident in her voice. "_She needs to attend its beheading… And her own,_" she muttered silently, bending over Zesyyr's shuddering body.

The Matron growled incoherently and shot Shi'van a gaze of pure hatred. The dancer smirked. "_Not out of it just yet, huh?_" she said evilly, grabbed her by the hair and yanked hard. She tilted her head inquisitively towards the psionic.

Kimmuriel watched the iblith female intently. Carved up and covered with blood, her movements were still rather jerky, though some macabre elegance continued to be evident as she bent low and grabbed the snarling Matron's hair, yanking her face up. A tiny flicker of wickedness lit in her eyes but other than that, she was mostly expressionless. Not a single trace of fear or surprise was present about her. Then again, what did the waking dead have to fear anyway?

Leaning back against the table and placing both palms on the top edge, Kimmuriel shrugged non-committaly and waved his hand towards the door He allowed none of the distress he felt show on his face at this abrupt stop of an amusing game he was playing. His eyes, however, showed his annoyance clearly. He would get back at her for it.

Shi'van brought her mouth close to Zesyyr's ear and whispered something in a language the drow female did not understand. Kimmuriel's keen hearing caught the sound, even while the words were too hushed to make out, he recognized the language. The dancer spoke in Calishite.

The psionic's jaw muscle twitched. He hated humans as much as he hated all non-drow, but he hated Calishite humans and everything that had to do with them even more. Their spoken language was no exception to that rule.

Even if he knew Shi'van shared his feeling full-heartedly, it wouldn't make him feel much better about it.

The side of his lip curved up in light amusement as he watched the shadowdancer occupy herself with Zesyyr. The iblith was very slimly built and hacked up as she was, there was no way she could possibly lift Zesyyr up, let alone drag her all the way to the House alone. He suspected the shadow wolf might, but having a snarling Matron dragged through the streets in open sight was not really a smart thing to do.

Curious to see how the iblith would handle the situation at hand, he watched her rise back to her feet and produce a small, bracer-like item from her belt. His stance instantly became more guarded as the item glowed dimly once and a shimmering red-lit gateway appeared before his eyes.

Grinning, Karandras grabbed the back of Zesyyr's robes with his jaw and pulled her body through the gate. He paused once before entering the portal fully, lifted his head and sniffed the psionic soundly. Sweaty. The drow should really take a bath.

Shi'van stifled a short-lived chuckle and turned to the psionic again. A brief expression of "I don't know who you are but if she is too far out of it I just might learn to hate your guts" crossed her dark-skinned features.

Kimmuriel shot back an "I know for certain who you are and I already hate yours, but no, she's not too far out of it" expression of his own.

"_Whatever,_" the dancer mumbled and stepped into the portal herself, muttering something about the Seer having some explaining to do and complaining about the lack of coordination in this cursed back-water hellhole as a whole. Kimmuriel had to put some effort into stifling a chuckle at that.

He couldn't help but chuckle anyway as the portal in front of him closed and the last words coming out of it were aimed at Zesyyr and how the dancer still had a few moments to spare to make her "comfortable" in there. The exact nature of the "comfort" offered ran along the lines of some cosmetic surgery being done prior to removing the head from the shoulders completely.

In hindsight, Kimmuriel was disappointed at being denied the pleasure of witnessing it. And in foresight, he thought sourly as the scent of his own sweat invaded his nostrils sharply, he could really use a bath.

Shaking his head, he pushed himself away from the table, picked up his shirt and headed to the corner of the room where a small brass basin of water lay. He had extracted what he needed from Zesyyr's mind, he mused as he undid the string on his pants, and he had also seen the dancer personally… At last.

He flung the pants aside absent-mindedly and grabbed the smaller of the two towels from the hook. Soon enough, he would give the Seer his (almost) full report of what he had learned about the escape routes and then, he would go out looking for the dancer once more. And this time - he added to himself as he lowered his body into the basin, threw his head back and let his hair soak in - he'd dive into her mind completely. But first, the bath…

A soft groan of pleasure escaped his lips as raised his head above the surface again. Hot water caressed his black skin, soothing his senses and relaxing his tensed muscles softly. He flung his hands over the sides of the basin, rested his head against its edge and closed his eyes.

Being relaxed was not a natural state of existence for a drow, and that only made the rare moments of it even more precious. Kimmuriel knew how to appreciate it fully.

**_& & & & &_**

A female sank to her knees. A male rose up from his.

Tarnash breathed deeply and tilted his head to the side. The eyes in the shadows burned blazing gold. The weapon master smiled.

But then, his gaze fell to another body nearby.

In a stride, he was beside it and crouching low. He turned the body over and his fingers touched its throat. There was much blood. There was no pulse. The wizard's eyes stared at him blankly, frozen and glazed. Gulthrys, the High Wizard of (now already non-existent) House Maeviir was no more.

Tarnash spat and got up. He toed the wizard's body lightly.

"_Oh, grand. Just who am I supposed to pester now?_"

The sword in his grasp was smarter than to comment.

**- **

Much later, when the coup was over, Tarnash would have the remaining wizards animate the still-usable corpses of all those who fell. Mindless and slow, zombies made poor fodder, but there was no sense in wasting available material. Armed with simple clubs, the shambling mass would stand unblinkingly at the forefront of the defending troops; their only purpose to take the first blows that would fall on them. However, not all the bodies that lay dead would be animated and used in such way.

Quietly, after all useful items had been removed form the corpse, Tarnash would take away the earthly remains of the High Wizard and offer his body to the torch in a remote, quiet spot near the river bank.

Many would see him passing by. Some would see him lighting the pyre. None at all would dare say a word.

**-**

But all that was to come later. For now, Tarnash was rushing down the corridor and towards the sounds of a fight ahead. Just this last one, and the spider kissers that had ruled his entire life would be no more. The thought was a pleasant one indeed and he rushed forward with the renewed determination it filled him with. A shadowy half-mask now formed fully on his face and sent a pleasant tingle through his skin.

Behind him, a not-quite-material figure was observing him with a satisfied grin beneath its gold-blazing gaze.

The god was pleased. His newly-found followers rose up at last, their leader now fully his own.

The dancer had chosen well.

**_& & & & &_**

_**Architecture Of Aggression…**_

"_Let's go_," the female ordered sharply. A group of Maeviir soldiers-in-training exchanged glances, then started towards the training grounds' exit. Imloth stepped in front of them.

"_We're not done here yet,_" he said quietly, eyeing the Maeviir female commander. She was a priestess but as any priestess, well trained in the use of weapons, and a solid tactician in her own rights. She was also Tarnash's second in command here… though the exact ranking was never quite clear for she, as a female was automatically above any male, including the Weapon Master.

The armored female looked down at Imloth and raised an eyebrow in annoyance.

"_I say we are,_" she leaned closer to Imloth's face. Being a female, she was larger than the male and with the advantage of size and height, her posture became even more threatening.

"_The drill is not over until I say so,_" Imloth stated casually, not really intimidated, "_And nobody is leaving until I give permission._"

The female inhaled sharply and her eyes widened. The fact that the male was not intimidated in the least was frustrating enough. The fact that he was so blatantly casual and disrespectful of her station as a female was positively infuriating.

"_I,_" she said slowly, underlining the word, "_outrank you… male._"

"_And **I** outweigh you… woman._"

The female spun about only to see the tiefling looming ominously above her. He did outweigh her and also stood at least two heads above her. Coupled with his shoulders being about twice as broad as hers, the flail he nonchalantly held swinging slightly and the eyes, although icy blue, managing to be infernal crimson at the same time… Suddenly, the female had a very clear idea of what intimidation was really all about. In spite of herself, she took a half-step back, even while trying to keep her gaze locked with his. Obviously, she forgot that to stare into the eyes of the abyss means the abyss will also stare back in turn.

Behind her, Imloth gave Valen a warning look. Whether the tiefling failed to notice or failed to show he noticed, Imloth couldn't say, for Valen didn't take his eyes of the priestess at all. "_Damn!_" Imoth thought, "_For Elistraee's sake, don't start a fight now!_"

"_You should watch how you address a female,_" the priestess said coldly, doing a wonderful job of keeping tremor out of her voice.

"_And you should watch how you talk to a reckless guy with a flail,_" Valen grinned.

Imloth felt like slapping his forehead hard (and slapping the tiefling even harder). Blast it all! After all this time among the drow, didn't he learn anything by now? This was practically a no-win he started; the female couldn't back away, for that would mean admitting being outranked and on the other hand, Valen couldn't back away either, for that would mean losing his. Not to even mention the fact that the most likely question to follow would be why exactly are they so opposed to letting the Maeviir soldiers leave the compound.

Swiftly, Imloth's gaze scanned the training grounds and, catching an eye of one of his sergeants, gave an inconspicuous sign to get ready.

"_Out of my way,_" the priestess hissed and tried to push past Valen. In a snap, Valen's hand was on her throat. Maeviir soldiers drew their blades. Imloth's followed suit. Imloth himself rolled his eyes and shot a murderous gaze Valen's way. The tiefling still paid it no heed.

"_Listen to me, you pompous bitch,_" he hissed, his hand closing tight about her neck and pulling her up to his eye-level, choking her in the process. "_I've just about had it with you._" He paused briskly and shot a quick glance her troops' way. "_I wouldn't recommend it,_" he informed them and then focused on their choking leader again. "_Imloth outranks you. So do I. When the battle starts, it's our commands you will listen to… and obey,_" he tightened his grip a bit underlining his words. "_And that is what the training grounds are for – For you,_" he glanced around again, "_all of you, to learn who to obey. __Without question._"

Abruptly, he pushed the female away and she fell on her back, coughing. His eyes ablaze, Valen turned on his heel and looked every surrounding soldier in the eye. Very few, if any, did not avert their gazes. They knew an angry demon when they see one and they knew better than to anger him further.

"_Whoever wants to pull ranks,_" Valen's voice boomed over the grounds, "_can do so now!_" He waited for a few moments to see if anyone would take his challenge.

"_You?_" he glanced at the Maeviir soldier who had been the first to raise his sword a moment ago. The warrior flinched and stepped back.

"_You?_" he looked at the still-coughing female's second in command. She shook her head and backed away.

"_You?_" he spun about, addressing the priestess on the ground. She shot him a venomous glance but said nothing.

"_Good. That settles it then._" The training range was absolutely quiet. "_Well…? What are you staring at?_" Valen said menacingly.  
"**_Back to your drill!_**"

The sudden roar echoed not only throughout the grounds but throughout the entire city as well. Even if all the troops were hasted, they couldn't have obeyed him faster. "_I'll get you for this,_" the priestess promised silently as she passed him by. Valen smirked in amusement. "_Any time,_" he mouthed tauntingly, watching her go.

Imloth tapped his shoulder. "_I'll get you first,_" he promised.

Valen, arms folded across his chest, tilted his head to the side and smirked at the drow. "_They're still easier to handle than tanar'ri, you know._"

Imloht stared at his friend for a while before a grin spread on his face. "_You know, you're not really as reckless as you make us believe,_" he chuckled.

Still smirking, Valen merely shrugged as if that went without saying. Far as recklessness went, maybe Imloth gave him a bit too much credit, but he knew full well what he was doing. Pulling ranks in such a brutal way served multiple purposes. First, he sorted out the proper chain of command and with the final battle so close at hand, it was about time he did, too. Second, by making it all revolve around station, he effectively diverted the Maeviir troops' attention from whatever they may have suspected went on in their House. And third, the whole display of brute force would come in very handy once they did find out what happened there.

The possibility of having another fight erupt right on the grounds after Tarnash finally came out (and whatever was taking him so damn long, by the way?) was a very real one. However, the image of a dangerous, unpredictable, roaring boulder of a tiefling would stay with the troops for quite a while. In the long run, it could spare them that fight after all. Not many were up to crossing weapons with him after his little display.

**_& & & & &_**

Gathered at the ground floor of the compound, the Maeviir rebels stared at their leader in silence. He stood in front of them breathing heavily, covered in blood from head to toe. Both blades drawn and a half-mask of pure shadows on his face, his eyes burned fiery red as he stared at them intently.

"_Gather the fallen,_" he ordered the first wizard that met his gaze. "_Search f__or survivors,_" he addressed a rogue. "_Secure the perimeter,_" he instructed a warrior. All of them nodded and immediately set about their appointed tasks. The wizards would pile up the corpses for later animation, warriors would make sure no one entered yet and rogues would check how many wounded needed tending on either side of the coup.

It was only natural that many of the House defenders either dropped their weapons or joined the rebellious fraction as soon as their own defeat became evident. Such was the way of the drow. And such was their loyalty.

They were survivors, and to survive meant to be on the winning side.

But the Vhaerunites hadn't won the day yet. There were still House members left in the training grounds, oblivious to the events that took place inside the compound, and Tarnash couldn't confront them unless he had clear proof of the last noble Maeviir female's demise. To make matters more complicated, the Seer and her lot demanded either one or both females to be brought to them alive. With Cahlind's death, it became mandatory that Zesyyr stay alive. But without Zesyyr's death, Tarnash couldn't possibly bring the rest of the troops to order. Then again, without any Zesyyr at all, alive or otherwise, he could do absolutely nothing at all.

As he started up the stairs again, heading for his own quarters to fetch a bandage, Tarnash had a hard time determining which one of the prospects frustrated him the most.

_& & & & &_

"_You want the matron, or just the head?_"

Tarnash, crouching and searching his drawer furiously, jerked his head up, narrowly missing hitting the edge of his locker and muttered a curse. Damned sneaky little bitch! He never even knew she left a binding in here! In his own room!

"_Should I be grateful you opened a portal here and not in my bath?_" he grumbled sourly, continuing his search. And then her actual words sank in. He almost banged his head on the locker again.

Swiftly, he sprang up and turned to the dancer.

Shi'van froze. The mask… How long had it been since she last saw the Masked God's sign on someone's face? Close to two decades. Almost half of her life. It was like… it was like staring straight into the past. Like staring at a ghost. Her mouth open, she took a step back, almost stumbling over the sobbing body that lay at her feet.

Tarnash looked at her in puzzlement. The way she was staring at him, he honestly begun to wonder if maybe he sprouted another nose or something. The soft tingling on the skin of his upper face gave him the clue.

He grinned smugly and looked the dancer in the eye. All this time, he never saw her so stunned and certainly not speechless. He enjoyed the moment thoroughly.

A soft sob and a hushed growl beside her feet brought Shi'van back to her senses somewhat. She kicked the body on the ground once.

"_They're through with her,_" she stated, a measure of control returning to her voice. Still, there was a tremor there that was not present before.

Tarnash stepped closer, grabbed Zesyyr's hair, looked at her and made a face.

"_And it seems so are you,_" he snickered. "_Pity I had to miss this party,_" he added wickedly, to Shi'van as much as Zesyyr.

Shi'van shrugged. "_In the end it is your party,_" she looked at the body again. "_I promised her once she'd find her death in the shadows. Guess I won't be keeping that promise._"

"_Guess you won't,_" Tarnash agreed, gabbed Zesyyr by the hair more firmly, lifted her up on her knees and spat in her face before dragging her away.

"_Well what do you know? They were right after all,_" Shi'van heard him taunt further down the hallway, "_Beauty is only skin deep._"

There was a sound of some feeble struggling and then a muffled cry. "_Come, come, now,_" came Tarnash's mocking voice again, "_Let the House see the 'splendor that is its Matron',_" he laughed and then ran down the stairs, Zesyyr's body smacking hard against stone every step of the way.

Shi'van scoffed and stepped into the shadows. In retrospect, the previous Matron, Matron Muryne, was much better than Zesyyr.

Zesyyr was worthless. Muryne earned her twenty thousand golds.

Silently, she found her way down and headed for the training grounds, wanting to see the conclusion of the day's events personally. Her mind was still in a haze. The image of the half-mask simply wouldn't leave her be.

_& & & _

Beauty is indeed skin-deep and "splendor" can take many forms. When an excited Vhaerunite crowd begun bashing the still-living body of their Matron prior to dragging her outside and off to the training grounds, they thought the sight to be splendid indeed.

In her last moments, Zesyyr Maeviir felt hard boots and leather lashes all over her defenseless body. She heared the mocking laughter and awful cheering as her noseless, deeply scarred, acid-bitten face with barely any skin left on it was shown around. Before she died, she was beaten, humiliated and spat at incessantly and there was not a single living member of her former House who hadn't seen her in her utter disgrace.

And her pride felt the bitter sting keenly every last step of the way.

**_& & & & &_**

Evening was almost at hand and the Maeviir turnover was nearly complete. The psionic smirked to himself and wrapped a towel around his naked hips. Had he bothered to dry himself, he probably wouldn't have left the wet footmarks on the temple floor, but he preferred to leave the warm drops of water to soak into his skin on their own.

His hair was still dripping wet when, invisible and unannounced, he entered the Seer's quarters and informed her of what he had learned. It seemed that a few of the escape routes remained undiscovered after all. Not that he cared. His business with the Seer was done and in an hour or so, as soon as he rested and replenished some of his spent mind power, he could finally go about his own.

There was one last thing to do in the doomed city before he left: find the shadowdancer and dive into her mind at last.

Hopefully, his hair will get a bit drier by then.

**_& & & & &_**

"_Not a prisoner, I'm a free man  
And my blood is my own now  
Don't care where the past was  
I know where I'm going ... Out!_**"**

_Iron Maiden, "The Prisoner"_

The training grounds were silent as death. They were also but a shadow breath away from becoming its playground.

A blood-covered drow battalion marched in. They smelled of death. They reeked of blood. Their burning eyes untamed. Their silence, a song of victory.

Tarnash lifted his head, blood on his chin and neck not crusted yet, strands of long white mane wild across his face, dozens of cuts and burns covering his entire body; his clothes and armor shredded and torn. His eyes were a feral flame, his smirk challenging and proud. An aura of power and leadership around him, a half-mask of purest shadow forming on his face in triumph.

Imloth clenched his jaw tightly. This was Tarnash, his killer and bitter rival, standing dark and unleashed, more dangerous than ever before. But even he had to admire the awe of the sight and though a bit grudgingly, he gave his rival a silent applause. Even Valen looked at the weapon master with a new measure of respect.

"_What have you done?_"

The gasp of the warrior-priestess broke the stunned silence. The muscles tensed. The teeth clenched. Nostrils widened. Hilts got gripped tight.

"_Kolsen'shea orbb._" Tarnash's voice was hushed, taunting and thick with sweet venom.

The priestess' eyes shot wide. "Kolsen'shea orbb!" "Pull the legs off a spider!" – a blasphemous phrase rarely anyone dared utter aloud and certainly, never in front of a female, let alone a priestess.

The snickering behind Tarnash's back landed on her ears even more ominously than the weapon master's blatant profanity.

The warriors behind her shifted uneasily. Some of them had enough sense to notice that they stood directly between the weapon master's troops in the front and the Elistraee followers to their backs. It only made their anxiety heighten. Whatever was happening, and worse yet, whatever was about to happen, had obviously been planned out way in advance.

Having your enemies outwit you was never a good thing. Having your allies do so was even worse.

Tarnash grinned wide and wicked and turned his head slightly. Two warriors from further within the ranks behind him returned the grin and begun pushing through to the front.

"_Witness the 'splendor of your Matron'!_" the weapon master laughed as the two warriors reached him dragging between them the beaten, clothes-torn body of the still-conscious Zesyyr.

Gasps of shocked anger and utter disbelief erupted from the entire range of the training grounds. Tarnash grabbed his captive by the hair and yanked her forward, forcing her head back, the gruesome sight of her face clear for all to see.

Pausing a moment to let the sight and all its implications settle in fully, Tarnash's right hand grasped his once more black-and-red glowing sword.

Next instant, the blade flashed free. A sudden hiss, a sickly gash, a gurgle, a twitch and spray of blood

The body fell with a thump. Arms wide, head severed, Zesyyr's corpse hit the ground.

The head stayed in Tarnash's grasp. He raised it high. Blood dripped from its neck. Vile cheers erupted behind him.

The priestess in front of him screamed.

"_SACRILEGE!_"

"_Bliss._"

The purr cut her ears as the sharpest of knives. She felt the ground being pulled from underneath her feet. A sacrilege. A rebellion. …A demise.

The word of L'loth, the might of her priestesses, the unquestioning obedience the females demanded and received as their undeniable right, their rule and their station, their power and their lives – it all revolved around the unshakable foundations of the Spider Queen's adamant doctrine. They were females; thus they were supreme.

But suddenly, things were not that way any more.

With the Spider Queen gone, changes occurred. The world of all drow, the entire Underdark, fell into chaos and war. In Menzoberanzzan, a new leader rose up. Up from the rank of a Matron Mother, Sinvyl Bar'ritar secured the aid of the arch duke of Cania and proclaimed herself the Valsharess; the new Queen, instead of the old one. But even so, the cult of the female remained intact.

Not any more.

The priestess watched in rising horror as the rebellious male held the head of the last Maeviir Matron high, his flame-eyed followers cheering with their weapons raised and her own troops dwindling and growing uncertain and scared. Especially the females. Females, like herself.

All of a sudden, the pedestal of supremacy was roughly kicked from underneath their feet and the force of the impact threatened to land them down on their knees. Suddenly, they were not so untouchable any more. Suddenly, they had only their own skill and prowess to rely on. Suddenly, no shields of station that was their birth right were there to protect them from their lessers' wrath. They were on their own. And mighty as they were, without the goes-without-saying superiority, they could not hope to prevail.

The word of L'loth meant nothing any more! The realization struck the priestess speechless. The word of L'loth… It was always feared; it was always obeyed… It was always the law! It was the strongest weapon she had. The idea of disobeying it… It was Impossible!

But yet, this male defied her. He dared do the unthinkable, and now, she was disarmed and helpless. And that made her enraged.

Being scared can do that to people.

"_You'll pay for your impudence!_" she snarled, "_The goddess shall not tolerate…_"

"_What goddess?_" Tarnash's said coldly. "_The missing impotent one?_"

The female's eyes darted from Tarnash to the headless corpse on the ground and back.

"_The goddess you just insulted,_" she hissed threateningly, "_The goddess who'll turn you into a drider for this._"

That was it. The ultimate punishment in the L'lothian society. The most feared fate of them all. The most dire weapon in the priestesses arsenal… The final threat she had left.

The hearty, mocking laughter that erupted from the weapon master's chest shattered her last illusions of cowing the rebellious lot into obedience. A dreadful sense of _thuulstrea_, the anticipation of impending death, rose within her like a flood, threatening to drown her and everything else on its way.

Her eyes turned wrathful slits. She had nothing more to lose.

"_Idiot! Arrogant, stupid idiot! As if you didn't know! We could have had it all! All! Our Matron allied herself with the Valsharess! We would have won the day! We would have risen to glory and smothered these moon-kissing weaklings to dust! We would have lived!_"

Her outburst rose above the heads of all present like a cloud of doom. Almost every pair of eyes went wide in shock. Valen growled low and swung his flail menacingly. Imloth's blades left their scabbards with a hiss. Two factions of drow in training stared at each other hostilely over bared weapons. One could almost feel the lightning storm crackling in the air. _Thuulstrea_ now hung over them all.

The Meviir troops stared at the Vhaerunites breathlessly. What they just heard sent ripples of anger and doubt through every black heart. Those behind Tarnash who weren't so drunk with victory shifted uneasily too. The implications of soon-to-be-dead priestess' words rang a clear note of disaster in their minds.

Disaster…

The Valsharess' troops outnumbered them at least ten to one and that was without counting the fodder. Defensible as Lith My'athar was, they still doubted that blood wouldn't soak the city streets once the attack began. Many of them would die before that day ended. None of them fancied the prospect too much, but had they stayed allied with the invaders…

Had they stayed allies with the Valsharess, they'd turn on the Ellistraee defenders and the battle would have been won before it even begun. They would indeed march to victory afterwards, but now that hope was lost.

Without the Matron to guide them, without the Matron as their recognized leader, even if they did turn against their current allies, they still wouldn't accomplish much. By the time Valsharess' troops realized they were on the same side, almost all of them would be lying dead. In their eyes, Tarnash's actions sentenced them all to death.

His followers were suddenly not so certain about everything; they began exchanging glances and quick signs amongst themselves. It was clear to them that there was no going back now, but still… The wisest thing to do would be to silently slip away, use the escape routes that were already prepared and disappear altogether. But now, that plan seemed hardly likely. The Ellistraee followers heard it all and they would undoubtedly be on their heels the moment they tried to escape. Their only other option was to remain in the city… and, most likely, die.

Suddenly, their leader's actions did not seem so wise any more.

Throughout the rising tension, Tarnash remained perfectly calm. Imloth, angered as he was, had to silently congratulate him. If he had killed the priestess when she first started shouting, it would seem like he was unprepared to face whatever she had to launch his way. He remained composed, however, and that in turn gave the impression that he was ready to parry whatever blow she had in store. Imloth only hoped that the impression was a correct one.

When he finally spoke, Tarnash's voice matched his cold, composed stance perfectly.

"_Are you so certain of your own weakness,_" he asked the priestess slowly, "_that you believe the defeat inevitable? Do you truly believe that your only way to victory and survival is an alliance with the Valsharess? Do you truly wish to be her slave?_"

Before the female could answer, a voice cried out from the crowd. "_She has an arch-devil on her side!_"

"_And we,_" Tarnash countered unperturbed, "_have a God._"

It seemed to him from the very moment the priestess began her heated tantrum that the shadows around the training grounds deepened somewhat, and he was certain he saw the red-and-gold glow somewhere within them. Now he knew he wasn't wrong.

A gust of darkness shot out from the ground. Swiftly, it swirled up, coiling around the priestess' body, turning into a fiendish snake-like shadow with eyes that glowed a hungry blood red. Before the female could even begin a scream, the shadow fiend reached her neck, wrapped it tight and opened its jaw impossibly wide. Next instant, the snake head shot down, swallowing its prey head to toe and in a wisp of darkest smoke, disappeared into the ground.

What followed was a moment of perfect silence. Dozens of eyes glowed from the shadows, red, yellow and gold, their ominous flickering clear for all to see.

"_We have a God,_" Tarnash repeated quietly. "_And the Masked Lord looks after his own._" His next words came out as a sudden, triumphant shout."_Vhaeraun is with us,_" he raised his blade high, "_And to Hell with the devil and his consort bitch!_" he roared and flung Zesyyr's head high, launching it clear across the training grounds and straight into the waiting shadows' jaws.

"_Victory!_" a voice cried out behind him.

"**_Victory!_**" a dozen more joined the first.

"_VICTORY!_" the entire training grounds erupted in cheers, and the cheering lasted long and good.

But not all of those present cheered nor were they too comfortable with the events that took place. Some of the Maeviir soldiers were not overly pleased at the outcome. All of the Ellistraee followers felt a sudden chill grip their hearts. The dark god's presence did not sit well with their guts. At all.

Imloth breathed in deeply to steady himself and put his swords back in their scabbards. Valen scanned the grounds carefully, looking for signs of any further trouble that could come up, but his eyes constantly darted off to the beheaded corpse of…

…His lover? Can it be, he wondered, that he was actually touching that body? That he caressed it, kissed it, held it…? And never saw it for the spider it was? How distant it all seemed now. And how impossible. It would be a while before he manages to shake off those memories and – yes, he had to admit – the shame he felt for being so stupid and so blind. But, he smirked grimly, staring at the bloodied, headless corpse on the ground was proving to be rather helpful in that matter. He was watching it, intently. The sight filled his heart with dark satisfaction.

The shadows around were slowly turning back to normal once more, the glowing eyes within them fading away. All, save for one pair. And those glowed not yellow or red, but deep dark emerald instead.

**_& & & & &_**

Back inside the temple, the Seer shuddered as a sudden sense of uneasiness washed over her. A cold breeze from the river briefly passed through the temple. But that wasn't why she shuddered so. No, it was something else that sent the icy chills creeping up her spine. Or, more precisely, it was someone.

The Seer, a priestess of Ellistraee, felt the dark presence of the Masked God of Night keenly. She knew it was only a matter of time before he manifested himself in that way. She was not comfortable with it at all.

She could only hope that it wouldn't make matters even worse.

**_& & & & &_**

Shi'van placed her palms on the wall behind her, leaned back and quivered slightly. A small, tentative flame lit up somewhere inside her. She breathed in deeply and threw her head back, resting it against the wall and letting the coldness of stone on her skin ease her back into reality. There were too many ghosts seen this day. Too many shadows… Too much to face at once.

The shadows condensed around her, pulling her in. She didn't even put a conscious effort into it. It always happened when she was distressed, when she needed to be alone. Karandras nudged her chin gently. She opened her eyes, looking at the beast over the curve of her cheek bones. She lifted a hand up lazily and placed it on the wolf's shadowy neck, her fingers sinking into his half-material dark fur.

"_You're one of his, aren't you?_" she whispered. Her fingers clenched and unclenched as she rubbed the fiend's neck fondly.

Karandras imparted no thoughts, just stood silent and observed his soul-bonded companion intently, his eyes glowing deep yellow gold.

"_I know you are,_" she smiled and scrubbed him behind his ears. "_Go,_" her hand slipped down his muzzle and she pushed his head aside. "_Go eat a rothe. Have fun. Spy around. I need to think._"

Karandras made a noise in his throat that she knew was a light chuckle and licked her nose once before trotting away. She shifted a few inches to the side and this time, summoned the shadows around her on purpose, wrapped herself in them as one might wrap into a cloak and closed her eyes.

Vhaeraun…

The god was here. She knew it. She felt it. It was all too familiar. She could almost feel the itchy taste of sand on her tongue again. The tiny flame inside her flickered heated red. It wasn't big, barely a small piece of coal that remained in the burnt out ashes of her soul. Not enough to warm her up, but enough to make her a bit less cold. Not enough to burn her, but enough to bring a dull bee-sting of pain to her heart. But what's a bee compared to the vastness of the void? What's a flame if it burns only as a smallest candle in the middle of an endless night?

She'd spend the night wondering alone, trying to find her answer.

**_& & & & &_**

Still fighting her tremor, the Seer walked over to the mirror and gazed into it's depths. Next moment, she gasped and stepped away, clutching the edge of the table for support.

She checked on the Valsharess' army and her army was close… and vaster then ever before.

"_What is it, Seer?_" Lavoara asked quickly coming to her side.

The Seer shook, picked up a glass of water and downed it in one gulp in an attempt to steady herself. It was not that she hadn't anticipated this but… so many.

There, in the depths of the mirror, she saw the march of the army of darkness.

Drow and duergar, walked in organized lines, in front of them, a rolling mass of green – thousands of orc and goblin slaves driven forward with whips and curses. The fodder: meat for the sword.

Flanking the army rode an elite force of dreaded drow lizard riders, their death lances hungering for living flesh. Their large lizard mounts, the Cold Ones, with their sticky feet and agile bodies, ran swiftly along the narrow walls and the ceiling alike.

Way back and in the middle came the casters, both duergar and drow. Off to the sides, an occasional flicker of movement could be seen in the shadows – the Red Sisters and the scouts, unseen and deadly, ready to rain death from the dark.

But, as impressive and frightening as that sight alone was, it was nothing compared to the force that followed – The Baatezu!

Marching in not-so-organized lines, rolled a force of large humanoids with clawed hands, long tails and foul snake-like beards, each carrying a cruel saw-toothed glaive. A slightly smaller group of huge cornugons flanked them and kept the volatile barbazu in line.

Down from the ceiling and around the stalactites swooped a force of large winged, lizard-like creatures, their scales flickering black or green and, occasionally, red. At the end of their tails small stingers dripped venom; their powerful claws flexed eagerly in anticipation of the oncoming slaughter. Some of them, however, walked instead of flying and several of them even changed their appearance into the likeness of drow, orcs and even humans and surface elves.

Behind them all came the true force of the baatezu, few in number, but the most powerful of all. There was six of them: twelve-foot-high monstrosities, with insect-like bodies and huge claws on both arms and legs, marched along. Their multi-faceted eyes scanned their surroundings and their long tails, covered with sharp spikes, swished slowly. Where they walked, the air seemed to freeze; thin layers of ice formed where they stepped. The Seer recognized them as the fearsome gelugon; the only baatezu native to the frigid eighth layer of Hell, Cania. The creatures were only one step removed from the mightiest of all baatezu – the pit fiends. Pit fiends, like the one that marched at the head of the army of fiends!

**-**

If anyone could have seen invisibility-covered creatures, they would have seen a pair of wide psionic eyes off to the side.

Kimmuriel gulped silently and mouthed a testy curse. Damn Sinvyl and her baatezu lot! With the new army marching at Lith My'athar, the importance of one shadowdancing iblith increased ten times over. A wild card, and of a most unreliable sort at that, but with the final twist of events, perhaps the last hope they had left of bringing Sinvyl down.

Well, if one believed in prophecies, that is. Or, if one relied on Sinvyl's interest in the dancer being of real importance. In spite of his better judgment, Kimmuriel found himself thinking exactly that. With another testy curse, he quickly slipped through the door and into the streets.

Somewhere in the streets, there was a shadowdancer. Now, there was one extremely distressed psionic stalking them as well. Soon, the two would meet, and it would be a meeting neither one of them would soon forget.

**-**

Standing by the Seer's side, Lavoara peeked over her shoulder and looked into the mirror. She, too, gave a sound gasp.

"_By Elisyum…_" she whispered.

"_What be wrong?_" Deekin who was previously busy chanting and singing over the globes, finally noticed the two females' distress. Quickly, he scurried over to join them, propped himself up on the chair and took a look at the mirror.

"_Oooh… That not be good,_" he exclaimed a second later and then looked up at Lavoara. "_You knows what these be, maybes?_"

Swallowing hard, Lavoara just nodded. The Seer was a bit more composed.

"_They are devils, Deekin._"she told him, "_…Many devils,_"

"_They be real scary devils… _" the kobold concluded sagely, "_Deekin thinks maybes you calls goat-man now? He knows how to fights devils he says, so…_"

The Seer stared at Deekin for a while. Yes, she had to call Valen. In fact, she had to summon a meeting of all the commanders! But… even she wasn't sure how the Blood Wars scarred tiefling would react to this sight. Then again, better she find out now than later, when the fearsome army arrived at the gates of Lith My'athar. Besides, even though they anticipated the possibility of some baatezu joining the Valsharess' army, no one expected they would come in such great numbers.

They needed to adjust their tactics. They needed to see to the morale of their troops. They needed Valen to tell them how to fight those creatures. They needed to summon a meeting at once!

They needed to…

The Seer drew a chair and sat down.

"_Maybe we erred in going after the Valsharess' allies after all,_" she said quietly to no one in particular. "_Now that her allies are destroyed, she summoned even greater ones to her side…_"she murmured solemnly "_I should have foreseen this._" She took another glance at the mirror. "_We must give it to her – She managed to outplay us after all._"

**_& & & & &_**

"_Born from the dark  
In the black cloak of night  
To envelop its prey below  
Deliver to the light  
You know your worth when your enemies  
Praise your architecture of aggression_**"**

_Megadeth, "Architecture Of Aggression"_

_

* * *

_

_And thus fell House Maeviir. For all those who wished a gruesome death for Zes, hope this satisfies you. And for all those who wondered about why was Sinvyl smiling – I guess now you know. ;)_

**Penname wa Silver B:** Well, I hope this was enough Shi'van for you. (grin) And there's much more blood flying around now – and not just on sandwiches.

**Essence Silverdragon:** Ah, long time no hear! Glad you're still reading. I have many fans checking this? Huh, I figured as much… Now, if they'd only review more… Oh, and "Don't you hate it when real life keeps you from having fun?" -I wouldn't know – I don't have a real life. (grin)

**euphorbic:** Once again: Thankyouthankyouthankyou…! You're perceptive as ever – Imloth was indeed a petty bastard there. About Valen abuse… we'll arrange something. And as far as Kim goes… Well, all the nakedness in this chapter I officially dedicate to you! Happy? ;)

**Lord Onisyr:** Yeah, I too am fond of that sandwich scene – wrote it moths ago and just waited for a convenient moment to slip it in. But the real madness is in _this_ chapter, as you saw.. and liked, I hope. ;)

**Wolf-Kin: **Ah, so the countdown worked, eh? Good – it was a last-moment idea and I'm glad it did the trick. As you can see, I didn't leave you waiting too long. Hope that counts for something. ;)


	29. part one: Welcome To My Nightmare

**Disclaimer:** All the characters, places and events belong to their creators. Shi'van's mine! And so are the original parts of this story! And if someone wants to sue me for the copyrights, I'll have them know I'm broke, so they won't make any money out of it… at least, no more then I'm making out of this. ;) Oh, and "_Sillhuette_" is mine.

Yeah, right, I know: took me a _century_ to get this one done! What can I say? I'm getting sick and tired of apologizing for these delays all the time. Trust me, three months Writer's Block is _not_ a pretty thing to be going through! Now add to that some Real Life kicking in _real_ hard and on top of it, a hard-drive crash and subsequent loss of just about all the music, pictures and, above all, _Word documents_ which I collected/wrote over the past several years. I am _not_ a happy person!

And just to pound in your already sunken hopes, the best (and the only) ETA I can give you on the next chapter is: When It's Done! I'll try not to keep you waiting this damn long again, but I'm not promising anything. And I have exams in two weeks time, so...

On the brighter note, though, let me reassure you I _didn't_ abandon the story and I _don't_ plan to, either! It may be coming up slow, but it _will_ be written!

Thanks for your patience, people (those of you that still have some left)!

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 18 **

**Welcome To My Nightmare**

_**& & & & & & & & &**_

"_All have said their prayers  
Invade their nightmares  
See into my eyes  
You'll find where murder lies**"**_

_( "Harvester Of Sorrow," Metallica)_

_**& & & & & & & & &**_

("_Ha-Hah! Whatta show! Very good! Bra-vo!_")

"…"

("_We make such a good team! …Don't you think?_")

"…_We?_"

("_…Why, yes! You – the wielder, I – the sword…_")

"…_Huuugggnnnh…_"

("_Say… Now that we know each other so well…. What do you say you make me your prime weapon, eh? I mean, I won't mind being in your left hand and… Well, all right, I admit, it will be a bit weird, looking at the world a bit upside down, wrong perspective and all that, but… I'll sacrifice. So, what do you say? Can I be your prime weapon now?_")

"_No._"

("_But… Why not?_")

"…"

("_Hey! I saved your life there, you know!_")

"_That's what swords are for._"

("_Errr…. Not really. We're more like… designed to end them, not give them. Which, mind you, is what makes me so special. I can give you life and end your enemies' lives, all in a same bundle. See? Just give me an enemy and I'm ending its life and-…_")

"_One more word, and I'm ending yours._"

Tarnash let go of the hilt and the annoying voice abruptly ceased invading his thoughts. He could only wonder how in the world Shi'van managed to put up it for so long. Maybe he should ask her for a tip or two next time he saw her… provided, of course, she didn't try to kill him on sight again.

His eyes reflected the flickers of fading fire in front of him.

No voice came to his mind again, but Tarnash still felt the wave of annoyance emanate from the blade on his left hip. Damn! Maybe he should've had Gulthrys put some magical gag on the imaginary mouth of the damned sword.

But, Gulthrys was dead.

Tarnash watched the pyre slowly die out, until it consumed the body on it completely, and then spun on his heel and headed for the House.

He didn't look back.

Dwelling too long upon the deaths of those you knew was not a common practice among the drow. If it were, then they'd likely be spending about three quarters of their lives doing only that.

He barely made it to the elegant archway between two stalagmite mounds that marked the entrance to the compound when a messenger from the temple caught up with him and informed him his presence was required immediately.

Tarnash rolled his eyes. "_What next…?_"

**_& & & & &_**

_**Eyes Of The Assassin...**_

Nathyrra watched Tarnash enter the temple, expert eyes of the assassin taking in every tell-tale detail about the male and neatly arranging them in as complete a picture as it could possibly get.

It's wondrous how much information can yield to careful observation. The posture, the stride, the slight tilt of the head, small semi-conscious gestures… For those who knew how to read it, subtle body language was like an open book; and Nathyrra was one of its finest readers. She didn't like what she read. The male she saw enter the temple was not the same male she saw this morning.

Blood. He was still covered in blood. Though he washed his face and scraped some of it off his bare arms, there was still a fair amount of the crusted fluid left on him. Nathyrra particularly noted the traces on his chin and neck: there was no way a split lip or a bleeding nose (and currently, Tarnash sported both) could have left mare than a few off-hand splashes of water could have washed off. Plus, instead of just the corners of his mouth, his entire lower lip bore the dark, coagulated traces which suggested that a lot of blood poured out of his mouth at once. There were only so many ways to cause such bleeding. Nathyrra wondered what happened. More importantly, she wondered why was the male still alive. She caught herself regretting that fact even more than she thought she would. Or should.

Her eyes slipped down his neck and his chest, taking note of numerous cuts, swells, bruises and scorch marks that adorned both his armor and the bare skin beneath, especially in those places where the armor gave in to the various blows he had received. Judging by what she saw, the weapon master obviously had a close brush with absolutely every spell and weapon available in the House, bar disintegration and table spoons. Actually, it was amazing he was still standing.

Nathyrra had to give him due credit for it: no spell caught him directly in its blast; no weapon cut in too deeply. For instance, the… mace, Nathyrra decided after a second glance, that connected with his arm could have easily shattered the elbow, yet the dim candlelight and permanent Faerie Fire that adorned the meeting chamber revealed only a huge purple-black bruise running the length of his forearm. A long cut, less than an inch below his hip could have easily bled him to death, if only it had been a bit deeper. But it wasn't, and that was the whole point - A testimony to quick reflexes and a mastery of Kyorlin Plynn.

Still, it must be painful as a mother's embrace, Nathyrra knew. And yet, Tarnash's easy gait showed none of it. No, there was no way he could be swinging that arm so casually if he was feeling the full message his nerve endings had to be sending him, no way he could walk with that hip without crying out with every step he made. However, there was naught but a slight limp evident in the male's gait… and a barely noticeable twitch of his eye muscles every time his weight rested on the wounded leg. Pain killers, Nathyrra concluded. But not too high a dose. Which was smart. Pain killers were tricky.

The idea of a release from the body's agonies was ever so inviting. Often enough, it was also deadly. To gorge yourself with pain killers meant to feel no pain, but to feel no pain meant to be oblivious to the severity of the wounds sustained. Under the effects of a strong pain-killing brew, one could probably sprint from here to Skullport in a matter of hours, but the body would collapse under the strain nevertheless. The trick was in proper dosage. Take enough to dull the pain, yet not enough to shut it out completely, no matter how inviting the idea seemed. Enough for the body to move unhindered, yet not enough to be unable to take an aching hint and sit down if you need to… or avoid resting your weight on the wounded leg too much.

Yes, apparently Tarnash knew the trick and knew how to use it to the best advantage. So obviously wounded, he still walked proud and confident. It kept those around him guessing – guessing just how badly wounded he really was and, more importantly, how much more could he take. Not much, Nathyrra suspected. In fact, she doubted very much he'd even be able to dodge even the weakest routine strike right now, let alone parry it properly.

Not that it mattered, she reminded herself sourly. She could not lash out at him now. Not any more. He was not the same male she saw this morning.

The ranks shifted. His station has changed.

All this time, Tarnash was merely lurking in the shadows. One of the commanders, true, but ultimately, just another male in Maeviir ranks. When Shi'van killed the previous Matron and her Weapon Master, Tarnash rose in ranks to replace him… Even then, he was still in the shadows. Zesyyr was the leader. Below her came her priestesses, tacticians and war generals. Tarnash was really just a field commander, his rank within the House equal to the rank sergeant Osyyr held within the Seer's army. Not a usual arrangement, but that was the way things worked under Matron Zesyyr.

But then Zesyyr made a mistake with Valen and from that point on, things went downwards. In the meantime, Tarnash's importance grew. Soon enough the amount of power and influence he held became equal to Imloth's. Even so, his official rank remained unchanged. He was just one of the second circle commanders and ultimately, subordinate to his leader.

Not any more.

A sudden rush of anger rose in Nathyrra's chest, like dozens of separate little whirlwinds joining up and merging into a full-scale hurricane. Dozens of them… And each one hissing in utter frustration; each one with the weapon master's name on it.

Hatred. She always felt profound hatred for the male, and after that "incident" with Imloth, her hatred only grew. For quite a while, Nathyrra avoided admitting to herself just why she hated him so, but in the end, she forced herself to face the truth.

He was… disrespectful. Smug, arrogant, sly, ever did a taunting glint sparkle in his dark red eyes; even while performing his finest acts of subordination, a trace of mockery was always evident. Of course, the very same thing could be said about more than half of drow males, Rizolvir, her Rizolvir, being very high on that list himself, but still… Tarnash was different. He was… too defiant; too proud. Too proud for Nathyrra's sensibilities; the sensibilities of a proud drow female.

Yes, that was it; that was the truth she delayed facing for so long. In spite of fighting it for as long as she was by the Seer's side, in the core of her very being, she was still the proud drow female she was; a creature that firmly believed that by the rights of birth and gender, she was naturally one step above the males. And, in a sense, she was right. She was superior to most males she had met so far, and quite a number of females a well. She was a trained wizard and a trained assassin, with skill and intelligence that far surpassed her young age of barely over one hundred. If she was proud, she damn well had reasons to be and in spite of everything he had done today, Tarnash was still just the arrogant, cocky bastard he always was.

Only… Now he was an arrogant, cocky bastard leader. And that fact alone was about to drive Nathyrra nuts.

Here she was, Seer as the supreme commander of all the Ellistraee forces within the city, and she, alongside Valen and Imloth, her lieutenant. And now, there was Tarnash, no longer ranked alongside Osyyr, but a supreme commander himself. A commander of almost full third of the defending forces. A leader… shoulder to shoulder with the Seer.

Such distribution of rank and power didn't sit well with Nathyrra's guts. At all.

Only this morning, she had told this male to shove it. Now it was evening, and it was well within Tarnash's rights to tell the very same thing to her, if he chooses to. And if he did, Nathyrra knew she would have to swallow the insult and back away. She didn't like that prospect one single bit.

By the looks of it, she wasn't the only one.

In spite of the inner struggle and a sudden rush of anger, Nathyrra's face remained calm and impassive as she observed Tarnash's progress through the room. At the same time, she reflected on the faces of others present.

Imloth and Valen stood off to the side. An aura of customary calmness surrounded the Ellistraee weapon master, but the subtle tightening of muscles suggested he was not nearly as calm as he would have wanted to appear. To his credit, he still seemed more concerned about the reasons for the sudden meeting than he was about the rival weapon master and his rise in ranks

No subtleties about Valen, though. The tiefling's radiant gaze rested on the Seer, leaving her only for a moment to pierce a burning hole through Tarnash as he entered the room, his tail slowly arching left and right as that of a big cat who had had a really bad day.

Further away was sergeant Osyyr, standing so that Imloth was between him and Valen. And wisely so, Nathyrra reflected. When he was in one of his moods, no one wanted to be too close to the tiefling. He radiated anger around him so intently, one might get scorched if standing too close. So far, only Imloth proved to be somewhat impervious to it.

Worry, puzzlement and all out uneasiness showed in the younger male's eyes. He didn't even make an attempt at hiding it. Nathyrra chuckled soundlessly. Osyyr was always a bit too honest for his own good.

Her eyes left the male and traveled briefly over the head of the kobold who stood closer to the Seer. Lately, and especially since the enchantment of those communication globes had begun, Deekin became something like regular temple inventory. Save for those times when he was organizing the rescued slaves or (the assassin flinched at the thought), courting his girlfriend. "_Where would we be without him?_" she thought to herself. She honestly didn't know the answer. The duties the little kobold took upon himself were not only important but also very time-consuming. Having him lift that weight off their shoulders had been more of a blessing than she could even begin to tell.

But now, even the customary cheerful reptilian seemed ill at ease. Somehow, seeing Deekin actually worried about something was more disturbing than anything Nathyrra had seen so far.

Yet, the worry on Deekin's face was still nothing compared to the expression the deva beside him bore. The celestial creature was so pale she seemed almost translucent. Even her silver hair seemed dark in comparison, her golden eyes wide and her lips a thin, trembling line. Her wings shuddered slightly, one moment pressed tight on her back, the next one relaxing, a movement akin to Valen lashing his tail or Osyyr tapping his fingers on his crossbow.

So far, Nathyrra hadn't formed a firm opinion on the deva, but she knew she didn't like the fact she was so young. A bit too child-like for Nathyrra's taste, for she knew youth carried with it the inevitable foolishness. But she couldn't help but feel a pang of envy as well: youth also meant innocence, and innocence was something Nathyrra lost long ago.

However, regardless of her youth, Lavoera was still a higher being of the planes – a celestial with no small amount of knowledge and power at her disposal. Seeing her in a state of distress was not a welcome sight.

In the entire chamber, the only truly calm person was Rizolvir. Normally, the master craftsman had no business being in these meetings. As far as Nathyrra could remember, this was the first time he had been invited into one. What, in the name of Eliistraee, was the reason for summoning him now, Nathyrra wondered.

He was probably wondering the same thing himself, but not even a muscle twitched on his sharp, angular face. Hells, not only did he not seem upset, he was even smirking. Nathyrra, knowing the male as well as she did, knew that the smirk was genuine, too. She was torn between the desire to hug him for being so composed and at the same time to slap him for daring to be so composed. Damn! Was there anything, anything at all, that could ever manage to spoil her lover's good mood?

Apparently not, and moreover, he seemed to be the only one in the room who was genuinely pleased to see Tarnash. That, above all else, rattled Nathyrra's nerves almost to the point of breaking. All right, Rizolvir was a follower of Vhaeraun. Everybody knew that by now and it was not like Rizolvir himself had ever made any attempt to hide it from them anyway. But while his loyalty to the Seer (and, in these past few months, to Nathyrra as well) was beyond question, his religion was still something the assassin was not entirely pleased with.

Especially now. The friendly grin he offered Tarnash as the male entered the room and, moreover, the no less friendly (and cocky, damn him!) grin that Tarnash returned, made Nathyrra want to jump out of her skin and drive her nails right into Taransh's smug, bastardly muzzle… on her way to driving them into Rizolvir's own.

A low growl from Valen was the cue that Tarnash reached his immediate proximity, which meant he was now standing beside the big table covered with maps.

"_Good of you to join us so quickly… commander Tarnash,_" the Seer said quietly.

Nathyrra winced at her choice of words, but even more so at the evident strain in her leader's voice. The Seer lifted her chin and met everyone's gaze briefly.

And then she stepped aside.

Nathyrra gasped. _Eliistraee… So far, we've been in a bad dream. Now, we've stepped into a nightmare._

_**& & & & &**_

**_Reminiscence..._**

Kimmuriel waded through the streets in silence, his physical form obscured from sight by Invisibility enchantment while his psyche, still partially attached to his body, waded through far more narrow and contorted alleyways than simple, physical streets could ever hope to be. Currently, what his sensitive mind explored most deeply were the dark, zigzagging tunnels of the alley called: Curiosity.

Yes, it was indeed Curiosity – the bane of the young, the foolish and the inexperienced (all of those terms combined in one single word in the language of the drow) – that dragged him out into the streets of Lith My'athar tonight. There was no point in denying it. Or, at least, denying it any longer.

He could have stayed in the room, he knew, and that would have been the most sensible thing to do. He could have leaned back in the bed and let his mind alone do the work his legs were now assisting. Could have (and probably should have, too) allowed his mind's eye alone to seek out and confront the elusive iblith female, wade into her mind as easily as he was wading through these silent back-streets, find what he needed in there and then, at last, go out and away from this accursed city once and for all… And not, he thought to himself, would it be a minute too soon when he finally saw the huge adamantium gates behind his back for good. But he didn't do it that way. He chose instead to go out, his mind and his body in tow.

And the reason, the real reason he chose that particular approach? Absurd as it might (and surely does) sound, the reason was still: his Curiosity was piqued!

Kimmuriel had dealt with the surface dwellers before and, as irony would have it, his closest encounters with them had been with those who had shared more or less the same origins with the one he was after now: Calishites! And Kimmuriel hated those even more profoundly than he hated all ibltih in general. The "taste" of the minds spawned by the great southern desert was as sour and heated as the sands they walked upon. Or, occasionally, as cold as that very same sand quickly becomes once the night unfolds its cloak over the blasted place. Kimmuriel never decided which he hated more – the heat or the cold, of both the land and the minds alike; but in the end, it had to be the cold. Cold minds… and one in particular. Too cold… Cold as the drow's.

The very idea that a rivvin, a mere human, could ever get even close to the drow, in any capacity, offended Kimmuriel profoundly. Mostly because he knew the idea was, in fact, true. Humans could! One, at least, could… And did. A human assassin, a native of Calimport, whose mind Kimmuriel entered on more than one occasion and went in more deeply, more intimately, than he had ever wanted. And what he saw there made his hatred for the man increase tenfold. Or that is what he thought. The truth, once he finally got himself to face it, was slightly different. It wasn't the man himself he hated so much, but the fact that yes, this rivvin did have a mind, hells, a whole personality, that resembled that of a drow too damn much. The bare, unyielding proof that a human could rise so high was what really ticked the proud psionic off. Humans simply shouldn't do that sort of thing!

Of course he wished for the man's death (though sadly, the man in question did not have the decency to die as of yet). What else could such a thing possibly inspire in him than a burning desire to wipe the offending creature off the face of the world?

Well… perhaps curiosity.

Kimmuriel grinned a mirthless grin. The one he was after right now, the one whose mind-waves pattern he'd been picking up for over an hour now, smelled and tasted strangely like those of the human he hoped he had left behind. Of course, while there were some striking similarities, there were also even more striking differences in the way those two minds "felt", but perhaps, the psionic mused, that very resemblance was part of the reason why he was out in the streets tonight.

A frown settling on his invisible features, Kimmuriel shook his head briskly as if that simple gesture alone could disperse the troublesome and suddenly disarrayed thoughts from his head. But both resemblance and dissimilarity of the mind patterns of two Calishites just kept nagging at the back of his skull, refusing, by all means, to leave him alone just yet.

Perhaps he needed to see the creature "for real", with both his mind's and his physical eye just so he could draw the parallels between the two, if indeed there were any.

Perhaps that was why he had forsaken the security his confined quarters offered and went out on this search, knowing full well that his body could come to harm before the night was through. Knowing your own superiority was one thing; overconfidence was a completely different one. Despise for non-drow didn't necessarily cancel out the potential respect for another's skill and prowess. Or, if not respect, than at least recognition and acknowledgment of it.

Another half-hearted grin spread across the psionic's face. Respect of skill and prowess of an iblith. The similarities between what he was experiencing right now and back then were truly astounding. And no less frustrating.

The curse of a disciplined mind…

He couldn't simply dismiss those thoughts. He couldn't, for a psionic mind was trained into a state of rigid discipline and all discipline begin with self. To lash out and wield your mind as others might wield a weapon, you first have to turn its edge onto yourself. You must turn it inwards and face your own fears, frustrations and insecurities before you can make, force, others to undergo the same process themselves.

He'd have to analyze these thoughts and feelings, he knew. Sooner or later, he'd have to. Perhaps…

Or perhaps this whole Sinvyl business was finally getting the better of him and he was just thinking nonsense.

Well, at least this other mind, the one he was currently seeking out, was half-drow, he reminded himself, but instantly reminded himself that that could be both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, for it would be a bit easier to handle the fact that a half-drow resembles a drow than it was to handle the fact that a pure-blooded human is also qualified for the "resemble drow" title. On the other hand, though, how much of a human and how much of a drow could he expect to find in there? And which parts would manifest in which way?

This one had walked among the drow for too long. Was it the drow blood in her that enabled her to do so, or was it that other, that stubborn, Calishite, desert-spawned part that allowed her to keep her sanity, or at least, the pretense of it for so very long? In Kimmuriel's experience, a mind-endurant surface dweller can walk the webs alongside the drow for a while, but longer the periods of exposure, more pressure would build up. And in the end, more pressure only meant the bigger final explosion. Or, in this case, several of them.

What he saw earlier that day suggested to the psionic that the female had already cracked. Things could only get worse from there.

In contrast, though, the idea of spending the rest of his career (which, he had no doubts, would prove to be a fairly short one, too) as nothing more than an errand-boy for Sinvyl was even worse.

And in order to prevent that from happening, he had to get the information he needed in its fullness, which meant he had to see the iblith in flesh, blood and mind alike and judge her intentions by both her psychic and physical reactions to his intrusion. He had to get the full picture before he could make any more major or back-up plans to insure his band's, and his own, survival.

The disdain he felt for depending so severely on one unstable lesser and her actions would have to be left for later.

Placing that last thought firmly in his mind, Kimmuriel finally managed to push all the other disturbing ideas and comparisons aside and set once again about the task of catching and following the iblith's disarrayed mind-waves back to their source – "The Young (also: Foolish) Ghost Princess," as the drow version of her name would translate, though, Kimmuriel thought, her drow surname, Z'hinrett, described the sound of her mind much better:

Z'hinrett. The Voidwalker.

And the psychic ripples from beneath the Voidwalker's scalp were, to the psionic, no matter how curious he might have been about their source, as pleasant and inviting as a driders' lair. They had a peculiar color of someone walking a greased tight-rope stretched between two shores of insanity, a discordant buzz of death-calm fever, tipped with a corona of dried blood and a smell of residual nightmare.

_**& & & & &**_

_**Thuulstrea...**_

To a casual observer, he was standing still. To someone who was not in the room at the time, for a brief moment it would appear as if, of all the people gathered around the massive central table, a muscular, broad-shouldered tiefling was the only one who was calm while everybody else backed away slightly, exchanging nervous or shocked glances with each other accompanied by sharp intakes of breath.

But the illusion could last no longer than a moment, for even the distant onlooker would soon come to realize that nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, that the truth was the exact opposite of what that first, casual glance had suggested.

There was no sound of teeth grinding together as he clenched his jaw tight, yet the veins that popped out on his neck told beyond doubt that his jaw was shut more firmly than that of a great hunting dog who finally got hold of its prey. But whether his jaw clenched to suppress a scream of outrage or a howl of frustrated pain, one couldn't tell.

The muscles under his arms' skin bulged as his hands tightened the grip on the board's edge.

The soft groan from stone-made table was barely audible. Perhaps it was no more than a scratch of his bracers against the granite that had produced the sound, but the creaking of a thing that shouldn't possibly creak even under his powerful, bone-shattering grasp sent shivers of dread down every last person's spine.

Muscles under his arms' skin bulged, but he did not move. Not an inch. Even his tail was still. And that was the worst.

It was that very stillness, the complete absence of motion save for the sagital tip of the tail shuddering ever so slightly, that revealed the truth of the matter:

What may have appeared as a monument of calmness in that room was in truth the sort of calmness that preceded the cracking of the dam; the last blink of false safety before the flood storms through. It was the dangerous stillness of the first several seconds of shock after which the explosion of unpredictable emotions would come.

The stillness of fury the moment before it's unleashed.

And it was from that epicenter of potential devastation that those present were backing away from now.

Once again that day, thick, heavy sensation of _thuulstrea_ hung low in the air; a thin, over-strung cord of tension; silence, just waiting to be sliced in half.

And then it snapped.

_**& & & & &**_

**_Gutter Drums Blues..._**

"_And I meander in mortal lanes of festering  
Screaming out my soul to the rhythm of the pendulum  
Droplets of despair - apparition distorted  
My lifeless pulse still rushing on  
Pumping to the pendulum"  
( "Phantasmogoria," Diary Of Dreams)_

Kimmuriel paused and looked around the silent backwater alley he had found himself in. Silent and neglected, seldom used by anyone anymore, the walls of surrounding buildings crumbled into uselessness. It was only a matter of time before those that were still standing would follow suit.

A measure of caution entered his step as he waded further into the alley, navigating piles of debris and bat guano that littered the ground. An occasional lizard scavenger darted quickly across the mounds of lichen growing atop trash heaps. They peeped curiously out of cracks and fissures that adorned the surrounding stalactite structures and hastily nibbled scraps and leftovers and, in one particular case, the tip of the psionic's boot as well.

Kimmuriel scoffed and showed the overly-enthusiastic creature his appreciation of its efforts in a form of a swift kick before proceeding even further into the slums. In times past, this section of the city was inhabited by beggars and slaves. Their filthy, malnourished bodies huddled together between garbage heaps, living out their misery as nothing more than another link in the bottom rung food chain where every corpse and every piece of dung eventually becomes someone's fare.

The days of slaves and beggars were gone now, scavenger lizards and bats the only remaining inhabitants of these streets today, but the stench of the past still remained; heavy, stale breath of decay that got only worse as one stepped deeper into the cradle of filth.

How fitting, Kimmuriel mused, scrounging up his nose in disgust, that his search for an _iblith_ lead him straight into the middle of it. With every cautious step he made, he inched closer and closer to his intended quarry for tonight... and with every inch gained, the 'feel' of the place and the mind he was after grew unnervingly more and more similar, the two beating in almost perfect unison.

His mind pointed outwards, he followed the psychic trail like a purebred bloodhound might follow a scent, listening to its discordant song; a disturbing melody that bounced off the walls, ringing a clear tone of damnation, shivering madness and off-key cries; muffled and haunting, psychosis in the gloom.

In the realm of the mind, sound has a taste, colors have aromas and illusions can be touched. Highways of the mind reach out through the Astral, stretching beyond the three-dimensional boundaries that physical bodies are confined to and the senses and perceptions take on a whole new meaning and use.

But while the mind constantly traverses such realms, a portion of the brain is still reserved for taking in and processing the information yielded by the common five senses that the body possess. Just because he was using an extra one, Kimmuriel was in no way deprived of experiencing the physical world as well.

He made his way around the low stalactite fence, trailing his fingers over its damp surface and feeling the texture of stone on his skin. He stepped over a slimy waste heap, avoided stepping into the mud right after and edged his way around the wall of what once had been a goblin slave pen. A wide crack in the structure awaited him several feet away and swiftly, he slipped his silent form through it, careful as he could be not to get too much of moist and dirt on his hair and clothes.

Emerging at the other side of the half-shattered mound, he quickly passed the relatively open space of the inner slave pens courtyard, sharp pebbles and debris poking the soft soles of his boots, and soon found himself beneath a slightly higher structure that dominated the compound; the sad leftovers of what used to be the slave guards' tower post. More than two thirds of it was now crumbled to pieces, most of the walls reduced to pebbles and dirt when the long-neglected roof had finally collapsed.

Time and neglect had taken their toll, and with both guards and slaves long gone, that was just as well. Yet a part of the structure still remained intact. A smaller portion of the tower, the one carved directly into the cavern wall, was still standing straight, presiding over the wreckage in a parody of its previous use.

A shallow ditch filled with offal and mud spread several feet around the base of the pillar, mercifully intercepted here and there with, if not much drier, than at least somewhat higher and thus more inviting patches of rock. A semi-circular space opened into the wall beyond it, its ground littered with pebbles and dirt, padded with thick layer of hardened guano – the testimony of many a bat colony that inhabited the topmost portion of the long-abandoned post.

The second floor of the building was next to nonexistent now, but some portion of the first one still stood: a natural alcove several feet deep; a storage, a privy or perhaps the remnant of a guard room.

Kimmuriel smiled (though the strain at the corners of his mouth signified less joviality and more agitation) as his eyes traveled up the shambles. For years, the place had been unoccupied - even the scavengers found little of use up there - and a thick layer of dust long covered the floor undisturbed... Until tonight.

To normal eyes, it would appear to be naught more than a patch of darkness, a teetering bundle of shadows nested like a dragazhar deep within the perch. To the eyes of the mind, it was an almost blinding beacon - cacophony of mixed senses and sounds; throbbing neurosis; warp; a soundless scream.

Psychedelic and surreal – rusty screeches of near-insanity rippling through the clouds of death-stale ash.

Kimmuriel took a tentative step forward. With his goal almost within reach, he had to overcome the initial impulse to plunge right in, to fend off the instinctual feeling of superiority in favor of unwillingly given semi-respect. He had to remind himself caution was in order when dealing with this one, regardless of how fragile her body and psyche might seem. This was a killer, and a killer walking the thin line between resigned autism and unpredictable outbursts of violence. While there were really no problems with the former, the latter most certainly invited that exercise of caution.

Stifling drow pride was never an easy or a pleasant task; it only came a tad bit easier to males than females, and even that was more a conditioned reflex in certain situations than a true showcase of self control. Still, for one of a disciplined psionic disposition, expediency would always win out and thus, Kimmuriel proceeded forward with an extra care in his step - and it wasn't only to avoid tripping over the many small obstacles the mounds of debris presented.

Circumventing the mud pond at the base of the pillar, he took in a deep breath in order to clear his thoughts further... and regretted it an instant later as his nostrils were assaulted with the sharp, overwhelming stench of offal and scavenger piss. Clenching his teeth, he stopped himself from snorting in disgust and settled for some silent, inward cursing instead.

The entire sensation came on two levels rather than just one. At the same time, the fuzzy, blurred image of the iblith in his mind's eye suddenly gained shape, sound and, most acutely, smell:

Cadaver. A carcass of a soul, festering in a grave of flesh. Rancid, but not still just yet. Stirring, still twitching as thousands of maggots busily squirmed beneath the deathly coarse skin.

Putrid waste ditch, like what surrounded it. And he would have to find his way in, unnoticed.

Kimmuriel liked this less and less

_**& & & & &**_

_**Insular...**_

"_On daze, like this  
In times like these  
I feel an animal deep inside  
Heel to haunch on bended knees  
Living on if and if I tried..."  
( "This Corrosion," Sisters Of Mercy)_

"_VITH!_"

The snarl cracked the air like a whip.

It wasn't so much the abruptness of it; it was more, much more. The fact that it did not come from the one they had all expected to burst. It seemed as if getting a taste of some genuine tiefling outrage was in order any second. As it was, they found themselves staring at flame-eyed Tarnash instead.

Which, in a way, was substantially worse:

All the while, the wildest card in the whole game was, for better or for worse (and most probably - worse), Shi'van. As of that afternoon, Tarnash came dangerously close to claiming the title for himself. Having the dangerous, newly-arisen leader snap couldn't mean anything good.

And having Tarnash snap right then also meant that Valen still hadn't. Between the two, a snapping Tarnash was still the preferable option, but just standing there and waiting for the eruption of Volcano Valen was taking the meaning of the word "anxiety" to a whole new level.

A level that, for the moment being, existed in a completely different dimension as far as Tarnash was concerned. The tiefling may or may not snap; the Baatorian horde will surely appear at the gates.

"_We have a god,_" his own words echoed in his mind, mocking him. How fitting those words had sounded then and there, on the bloodied grounds in his moment of victory. And how ridiculously shallow now, when the distant, potential threat suddenly became so very real.

Baatezu, Vhaeraun damn them all! Bloody, fuckin' baatezu! Even if he did have a suicidal desire to face those creatures on the field of combat (which, by the way, he didn't), there was absolutely no way he would ever be able to spur his troops into doing that as well. The authority he commanded over them was high, but definitely not high enough for something like that.

Another glance at the dark surface of the mirror, but the images displayed within it stubbornly refused to change, shift or disappear altogether back to the realm of nightmares where they rightfully belonged. It reminded him unpleasantly of the fact that, once the troops learned of this particular mess, his authority among them could onlydecrease. He could already hear the comments concerning the ruined chance of an alliance with a force of that size and power; he could very accurately pin the correct faces to said comments, too. Faces themselves didn't worry him that much. The amount of them, however, did. There was more of them than he was comfortable with.

There was only one possible solution to this. A line had to be drawn. Now.

Without a word, for none were needed and even those he might have found worth uttering would have come as naught but an incomprehensible growl, he spun about and headed towards the door, shrouded in a private little storm cloud that reeked of a flustered displacer beast in a cage.

Imloth watched him go, unblinking. _Stop him!_ his instincts were screaming, _Stop him, dammit!_ But he simply couldn't get himself to react. He felt the Seer's gaze fall on him briefly, and still he didn't move. Not transfixed, poised more like it... But poised for what? There was simply nothing he could say. Tarnash was doing the only logical thing to do; even more so in the light of his still rather tentative leadership position – a situation Imloth understood perfectly.

No sympathy there, though - in fact there was even some perverse enjoyment gained from observing the rival male's distress – but overall, there was nothing illogical or non-pragmatic in the other weapon master's actions. He gained everything he had set out to gain –control over every last surviving member of his former house, a band of followers for both him and his new-found god. He had it all, and he had no need, no reason to risk it all now. He had no real business fighting alongside the Seer's forces. None at all.

The fact that his departure also meant the departure of fully one third of the defending forces never even entered Tarnash's mind as anything relevant or worth pondering. Lith My'athar would fall, period. So what difference did it make if it happed two or three days earlier than they had hoped? Tarnash and his would be long gone when that happened, merrily hotfooting it to Skullport.

No, there was truly nothing Imloth could think of right then that would make sense enough for Tarnash to consider staying; and so he kept his silence in spite of feeling not only the Seer's but the others' gazes turning upon him as well.

It was strange, feeling such intense sensations hanging so thick in the air. One, overwhelming anxiety embroidered with suppressed belligerence - a direct result of the dark-eyed male's choice. The other, the quiet, brooding stillness of a beast, reaching straight into the center of the soul, a spot reserved for primordial instincts of self-preservation and striking a cord of deep, primal fear within.

A cold shiver ran up Lavoera's spine, the chill spreading around the base of her wings, causing them to shudder, when a soft rustle came from somewhere below. It took her a moment to identify the sound as that of a quill running busily across a paper surface and immediately, the chill in her spine dispersed.

Sweet little Deekin! No matter what was going on, he never seemed to be in the least disturbed. Possibly, the celestial mused, it was due to the fact that everything always seemed to happen at least two feet above him. Things could quite literally fly straight over his head, failing to disturb him... but never really escaping his attention. Somehow, it was a reassuring thought.

Not that any of it mattered to Tarnash as he reached the door and placed his hand on the knob. Vaguely, he was aware of the assassin's murderous gaze boring into his back, of the Seer's worried eyes as she marked his progress across the room, and a flustered, but silent groan dying in Osyyr's throat. He was only marginally more aware of being offered a slight nod from Rizolvir as he passed him by or of Imloth's blank stare resting somewhere at the base of his neck.

None of it mattered; his mind was already elsewhere, processing several things at once, outlining the tactics and routes of escape he was about to lead his troops through.

Until a voice stopped him.

It was quiet and low, more a growl than actual words; the alien, guttural tones coming from the base of the throat, at the same time sharp and menacingly silky. The accent of the Lower Planes.

Language of the Abyss.

_**& & & & &**_

_**Precautions... **_

Levitating came to drow as easily as walking came to others. A moment or two of concentration – a task that hardly required a conscious thought – and Kimmuriel would find himself several feet above the ground, in a part of the alcove behind and opposite to the shadowed dancer. But he refrained from doing so just yet.

Never the one to forego precautions, Kimmuriel first brought up a Kinetic Barrier and few other, lighter protections, then leaned on whatever passed for the cleanest pillar section to consider the task at hand one final time.

Entering a mind is harder than generally assumed. Any wild talent can learn to hear the constant buzz of surface thoughts and, with some effort, even learn how to single out one or two of the "loudest," predominant ones. Figuring out what's really on someone's mind, is significantly harder; scouring the mind for particular information even more so. None of it, however, amounted to what Kimmuriel was about to do.

To enter the mind in its fullest; dive through the shroud of latent psi – an outer layer of mind waves that everyone unwittingly creates – skirt the borders of conscious thought, sneak past the inherent defense systems and finally, reach the very center of one's psyche...

It was very different from merely "sampling" a mind, the way he did earlier that day while "paying a visit**_" _**to the Maeviir guard's head. Or getting inside Zesyyr's head later on, scouring the iceberg of consciousness and slicing neatly through whatever lay beneath. Granted, that was taking it one, or even several, steps further towards real merging, but still... that still wasn't "it". What he had done with Zesyyr had been an offensive act. It was an invasion in which psi was shaped like a dagger and used to attack, rather than slip in undercover.

No, what Kimmuriel was about to do was much more complex.

And much more dangerous, for the truly arduous part of the job would commence only after he actually got his psyche inside another.

To merge with a mind... to truly "taste" the world through someone else's eyes and get acquainted with one's deepest self. It meant to achieve a level of almost lascivious intimacy, perhaps not beyond an average person's capacity to imagine, but surely beyond anyone's but a psionic's capacity to fully comprehend... and appreciate all the perils the true merging encompassed.

Overwhelmed by thoughts and sensations of another, inexperienced, insufficiently trained and anything-but-perfectly disciplined psi-wielders would sooner or later – and likely sooner than later – get crushed underneath the pressure of the hosting mind. The danger of losing oneself, getting stuck, lost, astray, or even completely absorbed into the other's psyche was enormous. To first successfully merge and then perform an ultimate deep-scan required a diamond-clear mind and unwavering discipline.

Walkways of the mind are a treacherous terrain; threading them safely, even remotely so, is impossible.

And sauntering the dump-yard of soul is reserved for the most accomplished psionics only.

It was a thought that stuck to Kimmuriel's mind firmly, as he lifted his head and pierced the gloom with his physical eyes only, sizing up once more the blurred form enwrapped in shadows.

If it hadn't been for her chain-smoking for the past half an hour or so, she would have been completely invisible.

And if it hadn't been for the tumultuous aura of corpse-flies encompassing her mind, Kimmuriel would have thought her brain-dead.

Rolling his eyes at the thought, the psionic's feet gently left the ground as he willed himself up, regretting, with all his dark heart, that he couldn't just cut her mind open and never give a damn. But the bitter truth remained as adamant as before: the iblith was a wild card, too valuable to be disposed of. In a game with such high stakes, every trick up the sleeve, even the most insignificant one, could well mean the difference between the victory and utter disaster.

No, regardless of how much he resented it, she was still a useful tool that he couldn't afford to break. If all one has is a rusty blade, one still would not be wise to break it across the knee. Next to useless as it may be, better to aim it into the opponent's chest and let it break in there instead.

And when the situation called for a subtle intrusion, a subtle intrusion it would have to be. Subtleness, Kimmuriel mused as he covered the last few inches of his upward trip, as much a necessity as it was another precaution - Unaware subjects had more predictable patterns of behavior; "sneaking" in insured less resistance.

In the same way a novice burglar would fling a rock at the window, while an experienced cat would simply slide in through the back door unannounced, so would he pry open the lid of the dancer's psyche and elegantly slither inside.

The fact that the lid closely resembled that of a coffin didn't make things much easier on him, though. If slicing his way through Zesyyr's mind had been an entertaining, if somewhat tiring, vivisection, this had every prospect of turning dangerously close to a dissection instead.

_**& & & & &**_

_**Trepidation Reverberated...**_

"_Razors edge  
Outlines the dead  
Incisions in my head  
Anticipation the stimulation  
To kill the exhilaration_"  
_("Seasons In The Abyss," Slayer)_

Lavoera clutched the hilt of her mace so tight her knuckles turned an even lighter shade of white than her already pale skin and the feathers of her wings ruffled and twitched; an action purely instinctual in its nature. Beside her, the Seer went momentarily stiff. Everyone else stared at Valen with various degrees of confusion and incredulity. And fear.

The mere sound of the language was enough to send shards of tremor up anybody's, even drow's spine. The fact that it came rolling off the tongue of someone so clearly demonic in appearance was enough to turn those shards icy.

And the fact that it came so natural to him was enough for the Seer's to get splashed with droplets of despair. Like a cold needle, the sound of his voice pierced her eardrums and went straight to the heart.

Abyssal... He haven't spoken that language in years... Ever since he finally came to her side. The accent lingered for a while longer, but soon enough that, too, was lost. Not too soon, however; in fact, the gradual loss of the accent and the calming of his heated, Abyss-forged temper were going hand in hand, so intertwined that, to the Seer, the loss of the accent was one of the most important markers of Valen's progress towards calm and stability.

Forsaking the language and, subsequently, the accent too, meant forsaking everything the foul speech stood for as well. The implications such a sudden relapse carried were clearly far beyond mere linguistics.

Tarnash paused with his hand on the door knob. The sound of Abyssal speech chilled him as much as everyone else, but he'd sooner bite his own elbow than allow it to show. Slowly, he half-turned his head and regarded the speaker over the shoulder, eyebrow arched and face a carefully painted mask of curious annoyance.

The tiefling spoke again. In the drow tongue this time, yet the distinct quality of sharp rocks grinding together as they float through a river of lava remained lingering in his voice.

"_Leave,_"the words came, "_and you are dead._" Each word fell atop another like blocks of stone. Heavy and adamant; sealing the tomb.

Not a muscle on Tarnash's face flinched, and only he knew how much effort and control that took. His mind broke into run, thoughts swirling like spiders in the temple, trying to grasp all the possible meanings of the words at once.

A threat? Surely, and the words damn well implied one. Yet the voice did not, nor did the speaker emanate any signs of it, or, at least, no threatening aura save for what was normal for him at all times. No, the sound of the words was more of a promise than anything else; a statement, perhaps. A statement of the fact as certain as L'loth was female. The implications of such tone gave Tarnash a considerable pause.

It gave everyone else one, too.

Eight pairs of eyes darted back and forth, from one weapon master to another, trying to discern what was that all about and, more importantly, where would it all lead? Bloodshed was always a very real option whenever drow were concerned. With demons and their ilk, even more so. It was a prospect none of them found particularly amusing, even if some of them, like Nathyrra for instance, had serious murder in their eyes.

The female lacked the whip that was the trademark of her gender, but she made up for it tenfold with her eyes alone; the ire in her stare was so intense one could almost hear it lash. Neither Rizolvir nor Imloth were overly pleased by that stare; dragging Nathyrra off of Tarnash and then peeling Tarnash off the floor was the last thing they needed right then.

The Seer concerned herself not with such thoughts, however. Angry as the younger female was at the moment, the Seer still had full confidence in Nathyrra's self-discipline, and if that failed, then at least in her common sense. Neither of the two could she apply to Valen, though, and with every breath the tiefling took, she grew more and more anxious.

No, things weren't looking good, no matter which direction she turned to. Eventually, after what had been a small eternity to her, and just a few breaths in the real world, she closed her eyes briefly, looking for peace and stability within.

Next to her, Lavoera shuddered yet again, suddenly keenly aware of the absence of sounds as even Deekin's pen stopped screeching over the paper. Somehow, the silence was even more ominous than the foul speech that preceded it.

Osyyr, for his part, had a sudden, irrational urge to fire a bolt straight into the mirror, as if shattering the scrying device would somehow erase the grim reality it displayed. He realized he had been patting his crossbow absentmindedly and even curled a finger around the trigger. He had all he could handle just forcing himself to let go of it.

Conversely, Tarnash's grip on his own weapon tightened...

(..."_-re you bloody insane? That horned son of tana-_"...)

(("_Shutup!_"))

...yet he had not as many troubles letting go as Ossyr had. His hand slid across his belt and gripped the other sword instead, his face still relatively expressionless, but malevolence clear in his dark eyes as he waited, even challenged, someone to meet his gaze.

A challenge Valen did not take. His gaze had not even left the mirror, fixed to it as if glued. But he did speak again, just as Tarnash was about to press the knob and indeed leave.

"_Not even the shadows of your god will be deep enough to hide you from them, commander._"

Tarnash stopped. Somewhere in the back of his mind, just beneath the surface of consciousness, he suddenly realized how and why this tiefling made it to the rank of a general – not in the Seer's army, but in the armies of the Abyss. Armies, his thoughts jumped to the front of his mind, that spent eternity fighting precisely the things this city was about to face in no longer than a day. Fighting, and surviving to fight the next day.

The world hung on a thread. And Valen held the knife.

All out of sudden, Tarnashfelt as if something extremely bitter had just been shoved down his throat and he was forced to swallow it.

"_Not even my god..._" he muttered, echoing Valen's words, "_Yet you are saying that the walls of this damned city will hold them off,_" he went on, the sour aftertaste on his palate transferring into his voice as well.

"_They won't. But they will hold long enough._"

"_Long enough for what?_" Tarnash snapped.

"_Long enough,_" Valen begun slowly, angling his head towards Tarnash as he spoke, "_for us to survive._" The tiefling's voice was still calm and low. A pale blue eye caught Tarnash's dark red. "_To kill their blood thirst for long enough to give ourselves a chance to escape._"

In spite of his better judgment, Tarnash flashed him a grin. "_Ah. That's right. I almost forgot: you're an expert when it comes to retreat._"

No, bringing up the fact that, ever since he came to his position as a general, Valen had done nothing but leading the Seer's army on the retreat was not a good idea. But Tarnash simply couldn't let the opportunity slip.

He wasn't completely reckless, though, Imloth noted. He measured his steps carefully so to have as many obstacles between himself and Nathyrra as possible, one of said obstacles being Rizolvir himself. Imloth almost grinned. 'Station' really meant everything in the world of the drow.

But while Nathyrra seemed on the verge of throttling the male, Valen seemed to take no offense at all.

"_I am. That is why I'm still alive. And that is why you should stick with the expert instead of retreating like an amateur,_" he said evenly, yet for a moment, Tarnash thought he caught a flicker of mockery in the cold blue.

But before he could react in any manner, Valen abruptly pushed himself away from the table. The towering form suddenly at its full height, he turned his head and looked everyone in the eye. And then, spoke the words they had all hoped to hear; the words they had all hoped he would say.

"_They can be fought. And defeated. By us._"

Valen's tone was one of pure confidence. Not boisterous, not hopeful, not even loud. Simply... confident; the voice of someone making a simple statement, a fact, as certain as caves were dark.

For a second, the world seemed to breathe a bit easier.

Tarnash narrowed his eyes.

"_Defeated? Weren't you talking retreat a second ago?_"

Valen smirked.

"_I never said we won't be fighting first._"

_**& & & & &**_

_**Chameleon Slant...**_

"_Astral Plane is a tricky place. In the realm of the mind, sound has a taste, colors have aromas and illusions can be touched. Try not to get too confused when you first encounter something like 'singing grey.' It might well be singing your death._" 

_-Psionics lore-_

Frowning at the muck that covered every inch of the, in the lack of a better term, floor, Kimmuriel nevertheless sat down. He mad it a point to produce no sounds as he eased his body onto the ground. He soon found that shifting into a comfortable position in a small, stinky space wasn't exactly easy. Not that it mattered...

"..._Much,_" he added as an afterthought as a particularly pointy pebble stabbed itself into his thigh. But on a certain level, he was grateful for the incident.

When his focus was purely in the realm of the mind, the physical became less important; it was, as every other thing, a two-edged sword. It allowed him – or any skilled psionic – to wield their powers unperturbed and unbothered by whatever conditions their bodies were in; a handy thing for, say, escaping a torture chamber. But on the other hand, complete detachment from the physical world could easily become quite perilous in no time, be it an attack by whatever predator or adversary might be lurking nearby or be it simply the lack of realization that something is wrong with the body itself.

The trick was to make himself comfortable, yet leave some slight discomfort present; a pebble, perhaps, or a wet elbow or something like that – too small to be a real distraction, yet keen enough to allow him immediate contact with his physical surroundings. It was a trick every psionic learned early in their training. Those who didn't would have no need for it anyway; their training would most often stop at that point, likely due to a severe case of being unpleasantly dead.

For better or for worse, there were plenty discomforts to be found in the damp dirt he was in. Also, the alcove, with its half-broken wall and scattered junk provided all the necessary protection the psionic might need in a highly unlikely circumstance of getting discovered.

A circumstance he had every intention of avoiding.

Had Kimmuriel ever heard of chameleons before, he might have made the comparison to that strange surface-dwelling creature. However, the depths of the Underdark sported their own strain of lizard creatures in may ways similar to their surface cousins. Like chameleons, so did the Heatsihifters have the ability to blend with their surroundings, but unlike their surface kin, they did not change their color. Instead, they shifted their skins' heat pattern, and to some extent, even the very texture of their hides, to match the surface they lurked on to perfection. But the principle was the same, and it was the same principle Kimmuriel was about to employ for his own needs.

That required him to "probe" her first, to blend his mind with hers, until their psi-auras began pulsing as one. If he could "feel" her, "taste" her and "smell" her, then he would be able to alter his own mind's appearance - the texture, the mood, the scent and the very shape – to closely resemble her own and thus, be able to slip in – like a stray thought, undetected, as was his want.

Mimicry was his key.

Flexing his shoulders once to release the mounted tension, the psionic leaned back, clutched the sharp pebble in his hand and slowly, opened his mind for his first glimpse of what lay beyond the ghoulish dancer's eyes; reaching out into the grey, and into the dancer's silhouette.

_**& & & & &**_

_**Devil Takes...**_

"_I have learned the golden words_  
'_You watch your step'  
That life is made for fools  
and the devil takes the rest_"  
(_"Shot In The Dark," Great White_)

_I'm actually letting him talk me into this!_ Tarnash's mind reeled. _I'm actually letting him – all of them – draft me into their trice-damned suicide of a war! ...I can't believe this._

But even he could not deny that Valen's reasons were sound. Should he and his band desert, the city would not hold for even two days. And two days were not nearly enough to put any serious distance between himself and the advancing baatezu.

Moreover, Valen stated in no uncertain terms that, should the baatezu get deprived of a good, solid battle, their blood thirst would not be even remotely sated and sooner than one could blink, they would be set loose into the wilds of the Underdark to hunt for mortal prey. Baatorian troops needed no rest, Valen reminded him somberly, and needed no maps nor tracks to hunt him down. The scent of mortal souls was all they required; a beacon as obvious as the pillar-heatclock of Menzzoberanzan. And –for them- burning just as bright.

Scattering a few groups of rescued slaves about to set them off-track and buy a bit more time was not an option Tarnash entertained. He had no doubts the Seer and her group would instantly go after him if he tried it, baatezu at the door or not. It would be an extremely stupid thing to do, and exactly the kind of thing he had come to expect from the delusional rebels.

But rational or delusional, they still weren't a pleasant thing to add to the already disagreeable baatezu pursuit he would undoubtedly be facing. Even if they were just a bunch of poorly-trained idiots, they still sported among their ranks a small but deadly number of individuals capable of hunting him down, even if it would be done solely so that they would get to kill him instead of letting the devils have that pleasure.

Though considerably calmer than before, Nathyrra's gaze still pierced holes in his back, preventing him from voicing even half of his real thoughts out loud. Getting backstabbed was bad enough. Having it happen twice in the same day would definitely be too much.

However he chose to look at it, Tarnash found his future to be full of blades regardless, aiming alternatively at his back, his neck or pressed dangerously close to his crotch. Even if the city did hold out as long as Valen claimed it would and even if they all did get to evacuate on time, the idea of running a wild course through the Underdark together with the Seer's rebels had all the attractiveness of a sacrificial dagger... A sacrificial wielded by a priestess and observed from the curious angle only being chained to the altar could afford.

Small groups moved faster. Small groups were harder to detect. There was safety in numbers, true, but numbers reduced maneuverability, and with drow, it also meant more blades to dodge.

No, running with the rebels was not the kind of a packing order Tarnash preffered.

But still, it seemed like he had no options but to play along. He forced himself to focus his attention on the tactical discussion at hand. There was a measure of consolation in the thought that, when push comes to shove, should his group move quick enough, there would always be a chance that the baatezu would get to dine on the Seer's ranks first.

_Devil takes hindmost indeed_ - a smirk crept up on his face - _Literally_.

_**& & & & &**_

_**Silhouette**_

"_Wavering edges of consciousness  
Un-existence without sound  
Traces of silence disappear  
Prints of light fade away  
The touch is lost  
The bell comes down  
Heavy and glassy, somewhere inside  
Shadows drift through the world of mist  
Even emptiness hurts no more now  
The gravity doesn't exist  
Blended words and colors, they flow  
Slowly, sluggishly, eternity crawls  
Reality's just a deceit of mind  
Slowing down to inertness  
The shape is out of reach  
Sense has dissolved itself  
Memories and vision are one  
Faceless and numb  
Floating without senses  
Through nothingness "_

_**& & & & &**_

_**Faces Of War...**_

"_Acid,_" Valen was saying, "_Acid and lightning magic are the only things sure to have effect on 'em._"

Rizolvir scratched the back of his head and bit his lower lip as he counted the stash of acid-filled explosive vials he still had left. There would be no more deliveries, he knew, not even the last batch of alchemist fire he had ordered from Cavallas, for the first thing Valen ordered was to pull down the heavy bars that blocked both the entrance and the exit point of the Dark River. "_Can't trust a 'loth,_" he had said and, for the first time since the meeting had started, even the celestial backed him up.

"_Yugoloths' reasons are their own, and their loyalty's to themselves only. To rely on one, and especially now, would be the same thing as backstabbing yourself... with your own blade,_" Lavoera had stated. "_I'm surprised that creature helped you even this far._"

"_Working for both sides, more likely,_" Valen had grumbled, and that ended the topic of Cavallas for good. The bars were down, and the only resources they had were those already stashed within the city.

Rizolvir sighed. "_Electricity enchantments take too much time. I've a small stash of already enchanted weapons, and that's it. Acid, however... Acid is another story entirely. We still have barrels of it, two-thirds in vials already. Loading the catapults with them instead of fire..._"

"_Not instead,_" Imloth interrupted. "_There's still more drow and duergar out there than baatezu and they can still use a good fire shower._"

"_But a load of both fire and acid enchanted bolts for the archers would still be needed._" Ossyr came back from whatever corner he had been lurking in previously, but Valen explained that most of the creatures there could still be harmed by non-enchanted weapons as well. For those that couldn't, like the cornugon squad and the six gelugon behind them, a few bolts won't make much difference anyway, enchanted or not. Still, Rizolvir made a note to himself to supply Ossyr with at least a dozen enchanted bolts per archer, just in case.

Then the discussion turned in the direction of the flying, polimorphing, scaly things that, to Rizolvir, looked like a cross-breed between a gargoyle and a lizard but with all together too many fangs in their maws. Both Valen and Lavoera referred to them as "abishai". They hadn't counted on the flying opponents before, and the fact that more than a fair share of those was apparently about to pay them a visit challenged the entire meaning of having archers and catapults at the gates at all.

The walls of the city were high and formidable. Even the pit fiend leading the baatezu ranks (and for a moment, Rizolvir thought he actually caught Valen mumbling the actual name of the fiend), would find bringing them down quite difficult to accomplish.

But they still didn't reach from ground to ceiling and these... abishai things would have no problems whatsoever flying clear over and into the city. The remaining wizards from Tarnash's ranks could bring up a field of force, of course, but while that would prevent the fiends from flying over, it would also render all the catapults and the archers up front useless. Same thing if they tried to bring up a strong air current in order to impede their flight; once raised, those currents would be too difficult to control – if, in fact, they could be controlled at all –and the result would be having too many arrows either missing the targets or, even worse, backfiring straight into the defenders' ranks. The catapults' loadings were too heavy to backfire like that, of course, but still, they, too, would get reduced by at least one third of their original efficiency, and so on and so on...

_& & & _

Alterations of the defense plans, tactical discussions, organizational issues, all of it blended into one in Valen's mind as he droned on. He went on for hours, his voice calm and even, his thoughts astoundingly clear as he relayed to them the crucial tips and points on battling the baatezu. Below those thoughts, a whirlwind raged. A whirlwind of mixed emotions, memories and fears, that burned holes in his chest that he purposefully chose to shut off and ignore, just as he had shut off the raucous, demonic laughter, taunting and mocking him, straight from his past.

Occasionally, he caught a worried expression on the Seer's face and knew that the source of that worry was not the baatezu as much as it was a certain tanar'ri offspring that she came to love and care for as her own child. His eyes and his face remained stern and focused, revealing nothing of the inner turmoil; not even to her. Imloth threw him a curious glance or two; Lavoera's, distrustful and on guard, as if she expected him to turn tanar'ri on them any second now, but he paid neither no heed. Eyes from the past stared too intensely, slicing pieces of his very soul, for him to pay any attention to the surrounding ones as well.

The blood of his father ran heated through his veins, frenzied and in flames from years of slaughter; the pounding in his ears - echo of booming war drums. Ghosts of the past gained substance and shape, congregated like flies on a corpse, as he soldiered on, trying to keep his focus on things at hand. But while the absence of tremor in his voice indicated success, the apparent calm was only that deep. Inside, the legions gathered, stretching in endless lines across the blasted wastes of Outlands and beyond, rearing their heads and screaming in terror and delight, tentacles, hands and claws reaching out to him once more.

Shades of times long gone rose up and slapped him across the face unannounced. The years that removed him from them erased in a snap. And suddenly, he found himself flying...

"_...straight down memory lane and with a full view of things you'd rather forget ever happened,_" the words came to him like an echo, though who, exactly, had said them and when, he could not readily remember at the time. But come they did, and their true meaning crystal clear.

Rage and despair clutched at his heart, blood thirst and pain, savagery and fear; words "redemption" and "salvation" fading away, their meaning losing itself and escaping his grasp together with hope of ever achieving them.

Blood War was coming for him. Again.

_& & &_

"_The killer's breed or the demon's seed,  
The glamour, the fortune, the pain,  
Go to war again, blood is freedom's stain,  
But don't you pray for my soul anymore"  
("2 Minutes to Midnight," Iron Maiden)_

_**& & & & &**_

**_Nightmare Caress..._**

Strands of fine ethereal mist, the tendrils of his mind uncoiled and reached out, solidifying and dissolving again on their way to the shimmering miasma that surrounded the woman's mind. Once reached, however, he didn't rush the process of pressing through it. He chose to linger there instead, his psyche hovering around the very edges of hers, vibrating lightly, until a distinct aroma of metal and ash begun tickling at the back of his throat.

The rough edges of her consciousness smoothed under his expert touch. Smells began to take shape as he worked, colors turned into sounds; bitter taste of her dust merged with the nimbus of his resentment, yet still he probed her on, attuning himself to her deviant beat.

With care and attention, like a blind man feeling the shape of one's face; fingers tracing the forehead softly, palms brushing against the skin of the cheek and thumbs sliding down the delicate curve of the cheeks bones and on to the jaw, feeling the soft texture of skin, the strands of silken hair and wet gentleness of lips, so did his mind wrap around hers. Touching, feeling, probing... like a caress. Like an embrace. Almost flirting.

He hated the moment, hated the intimacy he had achieved. It offended his senses to be so close to one who he considered barely more worthy than the dirt she treaded upon. It offended his pride and dignity to approach like a gentle thief instead of a brutal conqueror. But it was essential, and so he kept it up

Until their psi-auras indeed begun pulsing as one.

Kimmuriel allowed himself the quietest of chuckles, admittedly amused - but not at all surprised - as his mind began morphing into proper shape, almost out of its own accord, with distant brass bells and fast-changing drum beats guiding him through the shift.

Into shape that best complimented the dancer's being.

Thought of black vapor and stale death's breath.

And a coiling desert snake.

**_& & & & & & &_**

****

**_

* * *

_**

_Dearly beloved, we have gathered here today to mourn the death of in-chapter review replies. They were good friends, and we will miss them._

_And because author feels feedback should be a) public and b) go both ways, review replies, as well as general Shadows chat (if you're interested, of course) will take place at Shadows Unabated forum. Just follow the link from my profile page._


	30. part two: Dangerous Minds

**Disclaimer:** Is something I really don't have to repeat every damn chapter and so I won't.

**A note:** In case there are still stubborn enthusiasts reading this, yes, I _know_ how long it took me to update. Personally, I'm giving Euphorbic a standing ovation for making me sit down and finish this chapter after more then a year. And another standing ovation for editing it as well. (Yes dear, I meant just the general "searing white explodey-ness") Warm thanks also goes to everyone who had the patience to put up with the lack of updates without caving my head in.

Since it's been so long, I recommend you re-read the previous chapter first; that way, this one might make a wee bit more sense. Also, this chapter sports the final "dream sequence" so it might not be a bad idea to go back and re-read the previous ones now. Some future events might not seem all that far-fetched afterwards.

On a final note, if this chapter's "mindscape" scenes read like a Thesaurus on an acid trip, that's because it's _supposed_ to. (laugh) Basically, I thought synesthesia (not the rhetorical device but neurological condition – look it up) was just perfect for the scene(s) I tried to present here. With that in mind (pun unintended), read on and enjoy. If you can. ;)

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 18 **

**Dangerous Minds**

Groups of people of all races, each numbering roughly a dozen, every fifth carrying a torch, congregated on a wide central plateau. Observed from above, it looked as if flaming serpents lit their way through the darkness of Lith My'athar and merged into one huge central fire. A glowing celestial presence gracefully was afloat few feet above it. A poet might have said the sight was reminiscent of lost souls braving the darkness on the path to salvation.

A more cynical, or merely more observant poet might have compared the scene to the road to damnation instead. Lines of worry etched on every face, human, kobold and dwarf alike, traces of physical chastisement evident on every poorly clad body. Less visible, but far more present, traces of emotional scarring rounded up the picture of misery at hand.

However, the only poet available was neither a blind idealist nor a die-hard cynic but something in between, packed up in a kobold-shaped mold with a sporty pair of wings and narrowly escaping definition. The term that suited him the most might run along the lines of "realistic optimist" –a controversy in and of itself, but so were most of the things concerning the dragon-blooded bard. And what that poet saw was neither imminent damnation nor certain salvation; what he saw was hope. Given the fact he combined in his mind a childish innocence and keen perception, his account of the unfolding events might indeed be the most accurate one. At any rate, the only one future generations would have at their disposal in a written form.

"_Judging by the furious scribbling sound, future generations will have many nights of reading to do,"_ a thought fluttered through the deva's mind and she smiled gently at the notion.

"_Bless us, angel!_" a woman cried, falling on her knees in front of her.

"_Blessed be,_" she replied, as she had so many times already that night.

"_Blessed be, all of you,_" the celestial whispered again and this time, her voice carried forth on the wings of a spell, falling onto every ear like a drop of a soothing salve on sizzling, poisoned wound. _Especially her,_ she added to herself, thinking of some special blessing she might bestow on one particular female kobold once her turn comes. The occasional nervous glance Deekin threw every now and then in the direction the kobold refugees were coming from were not lost to the deva.

Off to the side, a pair of bored drow guards were wondering when was this entire "rescue mission" going to end? Moreover, why didn't they just use all these iblith as fodder instead?

_& & &  
_

Nathyrra held back a frown of displeasure and signaled to her scouts to split up. Behind her, the gates of the Maeviir compound flung open to let a score of Eillistraee priestesses through. Less then an hour ago, as the meeting dragged on and fatigue crept onto its participants, the Seer summoned her lessers to cast spells of refreshment and vigor on the commanders gathered. And immediately after, she sent them off to the Maeviir to offer aid and spells of healing to the numerous wounded within.

She cast a healing spell on Tarnash herself; another nod to the weapon master's newly achieved rank. Nathyrra didn't want to be reminded of it, no more than she wanted to remember another murderous urge she felt at the sight.

The hardest battles are the ones fought with self. Though physically refreshed, Nathyrra's very soul felt tired and the soft pulsing in her temples heralding another headache didn't help matter much. She preferred to put off the fight with her anger and the subsequent contemplation of it for another day... or, at least, until her job for tonight was done.

Early on at the meeting, the Seer informed them of the escape routes that remained undiscovered by the enemy and promptly, Deekin and Lavoera set out to escort the slaves –_ex-slaves_, she reminded herself- through them. The remaining routes were to be sealed shut. And not just shut. The magical seals needed to be broken, the triggering words erased, the traps within the passages rechecked, hid better and rewound so that they would spring on the invaders should they attempt to pass that way.

How did the Seer acquire that information, nobody, not even Nathyrra, knew. She offered no explanation. Nor was she asked for one.

Nathyrra suppressed a sigh. It was going to be a long night for her and her group. Without pausing to look back at the now-closing Maeviir gates, she set the pace quick and silently led her group towards the first gateway.

It was going to be a long night indeed.

**_& & &_**

_**Snakeway**_

"_Inert flesh__A bloody tomb__  
A decorated splatter brightens the room__  
An execution, a sadist ritual  
Mad intervals of mind residuals_"_  
("Seasons In The Abyss," Slayer)_

A swirling cloud of eviscerated ash, the coiling spiral of decline; noxious and obscure, as indicative as it was delusive of the pandemonium within. The snake-shaped thought of a psionic slid forth. Gliding languidly into ethereal shroud, he meandered past the curious flashes of silence, the significance of which he could not fully fathom at the moment, and pushed against the defensive cocoon that enveloped the female's mind: the thick, solid curtain of sanguineous cold, speckled ever so often with droplets of venom and carefully aimed needles - a mental armor, designed to be both weapon and a shield; a quintessence of psychological self-defense.

Applying mild pressure, he breached it almost effortlessly, noting with bemusement as he drifted on, that many of the needles were actually targeted inwards.

Resonant brass guided his way further into the veils of silent eclipse. For some reason, the smell of cinnamon became stronger, to the point of turning malodorous; sickening-sweet incense and sweat, tasting almost vindictive. Potent with memory and evocative of rust.

The ghostscape changed as he sank deeper, acrylic distortion giving way to obfuscating gloom. The snake blended with thickening shadows, the fragmented shivers through which it glided causing a ticklish sensation on its obsidian scales. With but a brief pause to allow the taste of old steel to sink in, it/he moved further ahead where the echoes of sanity went still.

Its movements grew sluggish and lazy as it drifted on through the soft grey - a sensitive veneer before the gateway of inner mind. Then slowly, it drew to a halt.

The psionic looked around, afloat in vaporous numbness. This was the place where he would usually encounter the strongest buzz of thoughts. Around this mind, the padding was strangely still. A knowing smile winked at him from the memories of his own, bringing with it a hint of recognition. He had found himself in a similar place before, on a tour through a mind perhaps not that much unlike this one. Swiftly, he brushed the thought aside, before it could surface and turn the snake into a different shape, alerting the host mind to the intruder's presence. The snake flicked it's tongue, feeling it's immediate surroundings again.

And after a moment or two, it/he spotted it: the barrier – a web-like structure, intertwined with the wisps of smoke. Stretched throughout the opaque mist lay an obstructing shimmer of vibrating green.

He drifted closer to it and contemplatively strummed the steely-green strands. The snake's forked tongue, pregnant with ashy sensations, flicked in and out, licking and probing the web. The psionic tightened his focus to a needle-thin point, feeling for a beacon to guide his way in.

A fleeting sensation washed over him, a pang of unfamiliar pain in the part of the abdomen that he shouldn't have, and just for a moment, it illuminated the shroud in ghostly pale light. Just for a moment, but it was enough for the intruder to see.

Right there, where the webbing turned slightly translucent as hint of crimson descended upon it, he could see his entry point and catch a glimpse of the mindscape beyond.

The snake slid through and landed on the hot desert sand.

_**& & &**_

_**The Temple…**_

Urgent tension sizzled through the air almost audibly. Osyyr put some effort into staying focused on discussion at hand. He was a loyal soldier and a fine marksman field leader. Receiving orders and carrying them out was his lot; grand-scale tactic was not. Across the room, Rizolvir caught his eye and gave him a sympathetic wink. Osyyr let his lip make a slightest curve up at the gesture before shifting his gaze back to the table in front of him.

Three weapon masters leaned over the maps, busily sketching lines, adding pins and often talking in such military terms and abbreviations that even Osyyr had a hard time following some of them. They've been at it for hours, redesigning their defense tactics, polishing the details and devising new plans almost as fast as they were discarding them. So absorbed they were in their work that even the mandatory jibes and spiky comments became deficient. They were, of course, still present to an extent, but were to their usual, spirited selves as a surface spider was to a _myrlochar_. What little sparks did ignite on occasion were quickly and efficiently stifled by the Seer.

"…_and your troops will attach the nets tomorrow,_" the Seer finished her sentence. Tarnash smirked, drawing a warning snort from Valen.

The pocket-nets in question were an enchanted trap designed to prevent the abishai from entering the inner courtyard. Attached to the ceiling, the end closer to the second set of gates could be released when an aerial attack came, effectively trapping the flyers into the sticky pockets of the nets. Leaving the net dangling between the low ceiling and the top of the gates would only serve as a further obstacle for the winged fiends should they attempt another assault through the air. Affixing the net with small vials of holy water only added to the overall effectiveness of the trap. Still, the reason why Tarnash currently wore a smug expression had nothing to do with the cleverly designed net (courtesy of the local craftsman), but with the fact it was _his_ troops that had to attach it. Unlike the Seer's, his troops weren't exposed to the Night Above, thus they still had their innate ability of levitation. A small advantage in the grand picture, but, as ever, every little bit would count once the shitstorm began.

"_After you tell them why the nets are needed in the first place,_" Imloth jibed, promptly stealing his rival's mirth. Tarnash still had to break the baatezu news to his troops. The outcome of all the plans they were making greatly depended on how he handled that particular task.

"_I'll talk to them,_" Valen offered unexpectedly. Tarnash spun about.

"_I can handle my troops myself,_" he spat acidly, the subtext of "unlike some here" protruding out of every syllable hissed.

Valen grinned unpleasantly. "_But not the baatezu on top. Might as well give them some tips right away._"

Tarnash kept his gaze on the tiefling a second longer then necessary and then nodded, surrendering the round. His troops would take the news rather poorly, he knew; what Valen just said was both sound and allowed him to keep his face. And besides, he was too tired to argue anyway.

Imloth and the Seer exchanged glances. "_Then you two should go do it right after the meeting,_" she said, closing the issue. Behind them, Ossyr flexed his shoulders and sighed.

It would be a while still before he'd be allowed to leave.

**_& & &_**

_**Triple Vision…**_

Desert. Hot wind sweeping the sand dunes, scorching sun burning above. Desolate… The psionic squinted at the sight, and adjusted his mind waves to best absorb the sights that were about to be revealed. Memory, sensation and the connections formed in between.

Fragments of the past, pictures and smells preserved; imprints of times gone by, carved into very fabric of the reality within. The weaker ones – pale and ghostly, leaving barely a scratch in their wake; nothing but trails in the sand. The strong ones –like this desert, for instance- even if forgotten, pushed behind the veil on purpose, they still remained as vivid as on the day they were formed.

But memories meant little, unless colored by the accompanying sensations. Etched into the mindscapes in a plethora of colors and sounds; brands on inner skin. Defining factor of separation between the significant and the mundane. Observed in inner light, the memory pictures deepen. Colored in sensations, the details emerge.

With "where" and "how" present, the only missing component was "why?" Without the "why," -the connections between the symbols within- the other two were of little use to him. It was the difference between observing a finished (though a rather messy) painting, observing the process of it's creation and observing its creation through the eyes of the painter herself.

Three levels of perception, wrapped up in a single vision; three components that form a whole, greater than the sum of its parts. His mind now attuned to observe each one separately and at the same time, their blend, the psionic surged through the snake and spread himself into the host mind.

If pressed to explain, one could compare the process to pouring out a bucket of water through a funnel and letting it soak in and spread through the ground. It was a trick he had learned, not so long ago. Ironically enough, his first encounter with that particular technique happened in the presence of the same Calishite that this one reminded him of initially. What it amounted to was letting the mind soar through another's at an amazing speed, but instead of paying attention to every detail, to let the mind act like a sponge instead; absorb every sensation encountered and stash the entire experience into a mind compartment until one has enough time to dwell on it properly.

The problem with the original technique was that it usually left the explored mind in a state of complete devastation. In the past few years, and at the expense of several prisoners' sanity, Kimmuriel adjusted it to better suit his needs. His own version of the scan did not leave the brain damaged unless he wanted it to. Also, he made some improvements in the 'compartment' section too. Now, he could not just store the information gathered but also, he could begin to process it right away, as if he had several operating minds at once. Granted, it did feel a bit weird to have multiple Kimmuriels within the same mind, but still, it made the processing far more efficient and it sure as hell saved time.

"Multiple" vision and "multiple" mind, aimed and ready, Kimmuriel opened his senses and let the alien experiences pour in. Like pieces of colored glass in a surfacers' toy, shifting position with every next spin and forming different pictures every time, kaleidoscopic landscapes unfolded before him.

**_& & &_**

_**The Temple… **_

As the meeting drew to conclusion, Ossyr finished writing something down on a parchment, handed it to Imloth unobtrusively beneath the desk and prepared to take his leave. Everything had been discussed and the arrangements made down to the last detail, almost up to the precise moment of firing each separate arrow.

Imloth stifled a chuckle. He waited until Osyyr closed the doors behind him and then shoved the parchment Tarnash's way. Alongside coordination, timing was crucial when fighting an enemy about ten times your own numbers. Such arrangements demanded one rotates his troops carefully and that, in turn, demanded a strict…

"…_Sleeping schedule?_" Tarnash scanned the paper with disgust. It was not just the sleeping schedule –the entire step-by-step timing was outlined there- but sleeping hours were definitely the worst. He commanded almost one third of the defenders and apparently, the Seer and her crowd were intent to make the most of them and then some. The fact that all the available remaining wizards (bar Nathyrra) were in his ranks didn't make the rotations much more pleasant.

Imloth just smirked, confident in Ossyr's knack for precise time-planning: Tarnash's troops were to be worked hard but Tarnash wouldn't be able to find one single point in the schedule he could rightfully argue about.

"_Fine. I'll have the wizards copy this tonight,_" Tarnash grumbled, yielding the argument before he had even started it. "_You coming?_" he addressed the tiefling as he headed for the door.

Offering a grunt instead of an answer, Valen pushed himself away from the desk and turned to follow. Rizolvir was about to do the same, wondering, for the thousand time that night, why was he forced to sit through the entire meeting when his contribution to it had been over hours ago, when the Seer's voice stopped all three.

"_One more thing. Rizolvir, how long have you known Shi'van was the daughter of Darkmask Izzlyn __Z'hinrret?_"

With four pairs of eyes suddenly fixed upon him, the only thing Rizolvir could think of at the moment (aside from wondering how, in the name of Vhaeraun, did the Seer figure that out?!) was how glad he was that the fifth pair – Nathyrra's- wasn't in the room right then.

**_& & &_**

_**Kaleidoscopic Landscapes**_

_The Desert _

" _In the desert  
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,  
Who, squatting upon the ground,  
Held his heart in his hands,  
And ate of it.  
I said: 'Is it good, friend?'_  
'_It is bitter-bitter,' he answered;_  
'_But I like it  
Because it is bitter,  
And because it is my heart.' "  
("In the desert",_ _Stephen Crane)_

A light tremor rippled through the sands, bringing a heavy stench of sweat, camel fur and anise. And bringing out also, the music from within. Skin drums. A rhythm, not loud, but highly compelling; so much, in fact, it soon became an imperative. The snake begun to coil even before brass bells, a flute and a sitar joined in. The music, ever present, imprinted into the very fabrics of this place, oozing out of every grain of sand; always there, at the edge of perception, ready to come out in its fullness on a whim. Its own, or its owner's? It was practically impossible to tell.

The reptile, no longer a shell but a vessel for the psionic's mind, raised its upper body from the ground, coiling to the beat. Its jaw opened wide. Fangs, white as marble, contrasting the obsidian scales, shot out and forth, a droplet of venom hanging on the tip of each one. Emerald, impossibly bright, polished to smooth perfection, spread across the sands, reflecting the sky until the sky itself turned venomous green. Poison, hanging in the air in tiny droplets, sizzling through the sands, crumbling the dunes… destroying them while at the same time making them stronger. Soaked sand stood more solid and firm. Venom-filled dunes were impervious to devastation of wind – the wind that moaned in feverish red, obscuring the sight of all but veins of venom in the sand.

Four snakes writhed on the ground in unison, stretching forward in frustrated hunger, but still elegant enough to give an illusion of a dance, the fifth one following suit. Instantaneous sensation shot straight into the psionic's skull: needle-sharp fangs piercing the warm skin slick with sweat, perforating muscle and injecting fresh stream of emerald pain. A bite, standing for all the bites ever received. Emerald veins, running through the sands and the desert accepting them as a part of itself. So natural… as if they had always been there. In a sense, they had.

Snakes, lunging forth, eager to spit their thick venom into flesh, yet the flesh they aimed for was not flesh any more. A whirlwind, instead, a blaze of motion in a cloud of sand, born of music and for the music; existence, for the sake of self. Dance of Life amidst dancing Death.

The Whirlwind. The Dance. In the desert, here, now, and at the same time stretched throughout every dimension there was, existing simultaneously on all levels of being at once: way up, at the forefront of the mind, and all the way into the depths of dark subconscious – a lightless pit beneath the desert sands. The Dance, the core of the soul, the axis around which everything else revolved. The wellspring of life in the heart of decay, impervious to maggots and worms. The barrier between Self and Everything Else.

A very sharp, clear distinction between those two, psionic noted Amusing… Curious, he reached through the swirling barrier and peered inside.

_& & &_

Quiet. Calm. In the middle of fervent activity, the heart of it was paradoxically serene. The Everything Else was still visible from here, its existence acknowledged and always observed, but for all it mattered, hail and brimstones might be falling out there. Whatever went on in the outside world was powerless to breach the sanctuary within. A Sanctuary, enwalled by the dancing sands, bracelets, warm skin and veils - materials that, taken separately, had shielding properties of a wet rag, yet combined in and by the Dance, became impenetrable.

Looking up, or forward (for both directions were now one and the same), Kimmuriel saw the sands being substituted for blades. Around the same height, or time, the veils turned to shadows instead.

Shadows… The pull of the thought was so strong it almost sent him stumbling forward. Potent, almost as strong as… no, _the_ _equivalent_ of the Dance itself; alluring, simply by the virtue of _being_ themselves. But why? Moreover, _how_ they came to be that way? That is something he would have to find out.

Most often, the links between shadows and their respective dancers were akin to a chain binding a memorized wizard's spell - the links formed in a specified sequence, brought about through theory and subsequent practice. The chain in here appeared almost inherent.

He found leaving the Dance harder than he thought it would be. The tug of serenity was always strong – no creature in the sane (or, in this case, insane) mind would want to leave it willingly. Even if all he did was just lurk on its very edges, the Sanctuary still tugged at his soul. Fortunately, the tug of shadows was equally strong within the Dance. Mostly, he realized, because both led to the very same spot. With thoughts of shadows flooding his mind, he propelled himself through the barrier and landed -though a bit ungracefully- back on the sand.

The obsidian-scaled snake, the husk of a thought that originally brought him here, slithered lazily along the bank of a venom stream. Taking control of it once more, he steered it away from the bank and towards the first rock in sight. Even half way there was enough to understand where the initial affinity for shadows came from: the desert was hot, the shadows were not. In a land of nothing but burning sands and scorching sun, every shade was a treasured phenomenon.

A shelter, then - something that, in this mind, begun with a capital S. Still, in here, the shadows themselves became Shadows in time. If this was the marrow, what formed the bone?

Focusing on that thought, Kimmuriel sent the world spinning forward.

_& & &_

"_Down in apathy which is growing  
Once dragged down within a mayhem of light  
Skin to teeth... ripping my inwards apart  
Poisoned with wine from the sick"  
("Opus Relinque," Tristania )_

Desert, again… still. Interesting how everything seemed to have its roots in it. Only this time, the dominant smell was of grey and in a blink of an eye…

…A searing white exploded in the sand. Circles of flame shot through the desert, spreading like disease across the skin. Where they connected, the sand melted to glass – polished and thick, reflecting streams of venom turned into blood; blood, boiling and steaming, sending thick vapor floating up and painting the sky in red. Rapidly, the combustion spread until all there was got enveloped in an agonizing blaze.

Slopes of glass formed beneath his feet, encompassing thin veins of blood, droplets of venom and crystal-white pain, preserving them, for eternity. Glass, both transparent and reflective, mirroring the blood-red skies above and at the same time showing the sights from below - the pit of hidden darkness sending its silent black mist to meet and to merge with white crystal, specks of emerald and the reflected red.

The white had smeared; the pain and the void becoming one and a part of the landscape once and for all. Red turned dark, the color of rust. Only the emerald remained unchanged – shiny spheres of venom in the bloodstream of the soul.

Within the glass hovered the reflection of the desert distorted in red. Distorted, or perhaps finally showing it for what it truly was? It did not matter. To view it as the truth made it the truth. And then the reflection shattered, crumbling down to grey ash – A mirage of death in the decaying dusk.

_Voidwalker_

"_Perfect Isolation  
Time - slips  
My asylum years  
Will end in silence  
Without tears"  
("Bird," Tristania)_

The shadows were growing deeper now – darker, colder and in that, even more sheltering then before, curled up in the corners of the streets.

Streets – Dust, filth and sweat, floating like illusions in growing numbness. Shadows - a refuge and a shield, offering comfort in a timeless haze. And yet, something else lurked within them, something so similar it often became too easy to make a mistake and confuse the two. The Void: Silent. Empty. Unreachable. Deep… A perfect hideout… Until the hideout becomes a prison and the emptiness itself begins to hurt. Kimmuriel was careful not to step too close, let alone step _in_. The one who owned this Void had not been as wise. The one who owned it became owned by _it_ instead. Owned by the Void born in desert glass…

Dust, filth and sweat; blood and slick, sharp shots of crystal white - usually smeared, unimportant, but not always so. Sometimes, it would get shot through a prism and refracted in many different colors at once. Different colors of pain – searing yellow, dull red, hungry orange and a razor-sharp blue. Only the black was lacking: the black of shadows and of Shadows… but not the black of the Void. Shadows dulled the light, but could not block it completely, but through the Void, no light could travel. Within the Void, the prism could not spin.

Dust, filth and sweat, the spinning prism and the ever-present hunger, gliding through the streets of festering brown. Festering and crumbling away like leprous flesh. Cracked glass, sharp edges stabbing into the bare feet, through the skin and into the eyes. A recital of madness whispered in violet mist.

Fine violet wisps rose from the dirty ground, their heavy, sweet smell overriding the prevailing stench. Shards of broken glass smoothed under their touch. The shattered fragments stitched back together within the violet mist. Often wrongly. Always temporarily.

Many shades of violet swirled about, different variations of the same rich, sweet smell, dulling –for a while- the grey-and-brown decay and promising clarity on the other side of the haze.

Kimmuriel smirked. Opium, hashish and who knows what else… This had to be one of the more amusing intoxication projections he had seen.

Dust, filth and sweat; the spinning prism and phallus-shaped white; sweet scent of violet and sharp shards of glass. A pointed lack of any acoustic manifestations was all to obvious. The only sound here was Silence. Oh, there _were_ voices, the cacophony of laughter and shouts, even the sound of rust eating at the blade. What was absent were the screams.

Tight balls with pulsing cores of flame writhed in unfulfilled potential. Desperate to explode, unable to ignite. As a result, a veneer of soundless vacuum stood impenetrable between Self and the World Outside. Unspoken and unheard. In a world of one. In a tomb for one.

Iblith minds were so frail it was sickening and if there hadn't been for one redeeming quality, this one would have been completely detestful. Derived from the numbness and pungent taste of sickness, unyielding pragmatic cold begun to spread until even the desert became encrusted in ice.

_& & &_

So this is what death looks like from within, he mused and shrugged. Another variation of the same old theme… Still, he paused to reflect on the fact that, for some reason, death was strongly associated with number three. And not just associated – a desperate need oozing from the walls, seeping through the air like a fog… It was a _craving_ for death to be three.

The phenomenon seemed worthy of closer inspection.

His vision narrowing, it did not take long to detect a presence of a fine silken filament shimmering within craving fog. No, he corrected himself, not one filament. Many of them. Now that his attention was drawn to it, he could see an entire webbing of them. The one closest to him had a less ghostly quality to it, almost making him miss all the other lines whose silvery auras were slightly (or greatly) paler. Silken threads stretched across the mindscapes… And where their auras (or at least the stronger ones) met with their surroundings, sharp, rough edges turned a bit smoother; unlike with the violet mist effect, this smoothing seemed to be more permanent.

This mind had been tampered with before.

Not by a psionic, that much was obvious – Kimmuriel encountered neither latent nor residual psi-energy in here – but by regular, "normal" means instead. Mental healing, or at least an attempt of one. Some time ago, he had encountered a similar symbol within another mind he was in – the weave as a symbol of healing. At that time, he thought it specific of the particular psionic's mind – after all, Weaving was his axis much like Dancing and Shadows were to this iblith. Now, he learned that the connection might be more widespread. Well, as much as a symbol being shared by _one_ other mind could be called "widespread", that is.

Had he not been in this deep a merge, he would have considered a possibility of this being a projection of his own experience, appearing to him as a weave, yet appearing as something completely different in the host mind's eyes. He discarded the notion though; deep merge, by its very definition, prevented such things. In all likeness, the connection was made accidentally - a stray word, perhaps, spoken in some crucial moment or simply in a moment of heightened mind sensitivity, that sunk in and subsequently resurfaced in a shape of a visual symbol. That begged the question of who was the person (or persons) who initially started the thread?

Kimmuriel was certain it had to be someone from the outside world that initiated this. After all, even a psionic –his own apprentice, no less- needed an initial outside influence to nudge him in the self-healing direction. Finding out how extensive this weave was would be advisable (about its effectiveness, he had a pretty good idea already, and none too complimentary at that). Even more advisable would be finding out who was behind the weave: what sort of personality it took to reach, let alone reach so deeply, into an otherwise unbreachable, hostile environment?

The curious connection between death and number three could wait a while. The silvery weave appeared to be the glue which, more-or-less, kept the entire structure from crumbling down. Yet. It demanded a more thorough inspection. Besides, he was growing fast tired of maggots and worms. And not just metaphorically. Merged as he was, he couldn't help but experience all the sensations he had encountered on a personal level as well. He blocked most of them out, keeping a straight line in his brain, dividing these experiences from his real self, but some of them still managed to get through. Ten percent, twenty at the worst, not nearly enough to drown him, but just sufficient to make him wish for a bath and a toothbrush.

He wrapped a piece of ghostly silk around his finger contemplatively, feeling its texture. Rough fabric, cold –extremely cold- to the touch and smelling slightly of lemons, shadows and pines. Also, the only thing around that took well to being touched. Physical contact with anything else always seemed to produce a strong surge of sickness and, quite often, trigger a retreat, all the way to the void and often _into it_ as well. Paradoxically, touch was not an unwelcome sensation in here; it was just that it was more strongly linked to the prism of pain then it should be. Figures…

The psionic inhaled deeply, letting the silvery sensation fill his lungs and poured his mind into the weave, in all directions at once.

_Shadoweave_

"_Gesture of an argentine moisture  
like snow upon the riverine  
Gesture of an argentine moisture  
so sore upon congeal skin"  
("Lethean River," Tristania)_

**A thread** sank into violet mist, thinning, almost dissolving in it. Yet, the core of shimmering silk remained intact. Twisted, distorted, dull silvery glow tarnished where violet touched it; the filament itself tangled and collapsed into confusing, conflicting knots. It wasn't a part of the floating, sweet-smelling violet – merely passing through it. But their tastes were remarkably similar. Not to confuse the two was a feat; in the past, often an unaccomplished one.

**A thread** ran into a swirl of broken glass, each tiny, sharp shard reflecting its own distorted image, of the world outside and within. Madness. Utter, screeching madness, as pieces collided, breaking each other further, or merging together in formations even more grotesque. Violet mist drifted through the wreckage in dark, beyond-the-sanity shades; grinding of glass emanating alcoholic vapors. Corona of dried blood; emerald needles puncturing the skin. Wet steel, giving rhythm to the cacophony of the eclipse.

Yet the line of silk remained uncut. To the contrary, the further it stretched, more stout it became. Casting a clear silvery glow, it smoothed the edges it touched. It did not make much difference, though.

**A thread** dissolved the violet haze and soared through the air amidst the mountain peaks covered in snow. The silk was strong; it breathed silver cold. Cold… like the snow, like the ice soothing a freshly burnt wound. A figure sat nearby, small crackles of lightning dancing in a halo around it. It was scooping up the snow in its hands, rubbing it between the outstretched palms. Between the bases of its fingers, where palms were pressed together, the snow came out in a form of silvery silken thread. Kimmuriel drifted closer.

The head of the figure was bent forward, its face obscured from sight, but in a thin sheen of ice on the ground beside it, its reflection could be seen: the reflection of an old dwarven face.

What parts of it weren't covered in thick, white facial hair were criss-crossed by deep lines of age. The aura of power –and wisdom- was strong enough to be felt even through the reflection; the eyes themselves seemed to sparkle with vitality and life. But when the dwarf lifted his head, it did not match its reflection at all.

Empty eye sockets stared at the world blindly. The skin was grey and decaying, rotting flakes falling on patches of dried, crusted hairs of a corpse.

But the hands kept moving just the same, forming cold silk between the pressed palms.

**A thread** floated through the Void, losing solidity and gaining in transparency. Fake silver glowed ghostly in the vacuum; the vacuum – ever lurking, ever expanding, barely kept locked under the sands. The psionic backed away. Stepping in was too dangerous to experiment with.

**A thread** thinned as it stretched through time and space, disappearing on the horizon… passing through number three rimmed in bright silver. On the other side, lay a city, similarly bathed in silken ice. And the name of the city was…

_Sigil?_ What the…? Kimmuriel's surprise at finding this particular projection in here was almost as big as the one that came a moment later, when he learned that he could not access it via this thread. He could break in, of course, but that wouldn't cut it. He looked back and frowned, realizing that the way into the city lay through a very, very roundabout route – one he had neither time nor will to traverse. As much as he was curious to learn how did this iblith end up on the Planes, he had no desire to see any more chapters of her life so closely. Sigil was a place wrapped in silken threads – he would have to satisfy himself with that for now. He left a shred of his consciousness to snoop around some more and took his leave.

**A thread** meandered through dark corridors below the ground. Like ivy, it climbed over the walls, wrapped around the columns and coiled inside the shadows that were not as empty as the first, casual glance would suggest. Somewhere in the background, there was a soft sound of skin drums and content humming of the Dance. Figures moved through the semi-ruined complex, passing through the threads like ghosts. Nearly all of them were drow.

It was all Kimmuriel could handle not to laugh out loud: if there was ever a slightest shred of doubt, this definitely proved the iblith to be truly batshit insane. Who but a foolish iblith could ever associate drow with things such as safety, tranquility and healing silk?

Still, some aspects of the scene deserved some credit despite the prevailing ridiculousness. The warmth here was far removed from open flames; no melting of careful, reflective ice. There was no soft, velvet cushion padding the walls of this place, no wooly clouds so many surfacers seemed to paint pink and wear across the eyes. The feeling was more of a hard, cold rock, draped in thin layer of –somewhat comfy linen. Smart… Unlike pink wool, rock was something one could lean on. Solid and reliable, one could sit on it as well as slam it into someone else's face. Affection, taken a bit too far perhaps, but never mistaken for trust.

Kimmuriel joined the roaming ghosts and kept his eye on the silk weave of shadows and ice. The path led him to a lone figure, wrapped in black cloak and leaned over an even blacker altar. Between its index and middle finger, an end of a silken string hung loosely, being fiddled with in a rather off-hand way.

Cocking his head, Kimmuriel slowly approached it.

At the edge of his consciousness, he could still feel the sensations particles of his split mind kept sending in, but he became too absorbed in the sight unfolding in front of him to pay closer attention to them. Therefore, he carelessly neglected the fact that one of his "minds", the one he left snooping around the gates of Sigil, brushed against something in the dark. A moment later, a shadow, more alert than the others, stirred and then bolted towards the rim of the outer mind.

**_& & &_**

_**The Temple…**_

"_How long have you known Shi'van was the daughter of Darkmask Izzlyn __Z'hinrret_?"

Valen's tail swished sharply. Tarnash's eyes narrowed in annoyed curiosity. Imloth, half-up already, sank back into his chair. Rizolvir grinned wily.

"_Roughly… since about two seconds ago. …I did suspect it for a bit longer than that, though,_" he added quickly, seeing how the Seer was not much in the mood for his witticisms right then.

"_And it never crossed your mind to tell the rest of us?_" Imloth asked with more calm then Rizolvir would have expected. Though her expression seemingly remained unchanged, slight furrowing of eyebrows made Rizolvir see the very same question etched onto the Seer's face as well. Still grinning lightly, the craftsman placed an elbow on the back of the chair calmly and half-turned towards the weapon master.

"_No._" Plain and simple. Not that Imloth expected an answer any different. Behind the craftsman, Valen's nostrils flared.

"_I saw no reason to,_" Rizolvir continued evenly, then turned to the Seer to finish his sentence: "_And neither do I see one now._"

Forgetting their habitual hostility for a second, Imloth and Tarnash exchanged quick glances. "_What the…?_" the Vhaerunite leader's hand signaled subtly. Imloth responded with an equally subtle shrug and a nod of his head, indicating they should wait 'til they heard some more. He did have a few ideas about why did the Seer bring this up out of the blue, but wasn't about to share just yet, and certainly, not with Tarnash. Besides, even if he was once again communicating in growls, Valen was _still_ being too calm for Imloth to be comfortable about it. After the last heated argument in the vampire temple, pushed in the background by this new baatezu development, the tiefling's reactions were as predictable as the will of L'loth. Summing it all up, Imloth wasn't sure if Valen not jumping out of his skin at the mention of a certain half-drow was a good sign or a bad one.

"_Why?_" The Seer's voice had the same tone and quality it had during her meeting with the Bregan D'Aerthe leader two days ago. Not surprising, given the fact she was playing the same game: pretending to know more than she did in order to learn all that she could. She hated having to play such games with one of her own, but in spite of trusting Rizolvir, she never forgot he was a Vhaeraunite. One could never be too careful when dealing with the followers of the Masked God.

"_And what, by nightshadows, does that have to do with anything, anyway?_" Tarnash snapped before Rizolvir could utter a word.

"_That, for instance,_" the Seer was quick to reply, alluding to Tarnash's extremely quick adoption of phrases used by followers of The Shadow. Shi'van's not-so-indirect involvement in bringing that entity into play in the first place did not escape her attention. Somehow, that, too, made it into her voice.

Rizolvir's lip curved slightly as Tarnash threw him a quick glance. "_Partners in crime, eh?_" he signaled so that only Tarnash could see. Tarnash grinned and turned back to the Seer.

"_So __that's__ what's really bugging you?_" his expression seemed to say though "_So this is not about the dancer at all, then?_" was he said out loud.

The Seer shook her head. "_It is._"

"_How so?_" Tarnash was quick to reply. "_Why?_" asked Rizolvir at the same time.

Following the pattern Valen's tail wove in the air, Imloth made a silent bet with himself abut whose head did the tiefling want to crush first.

"_She still has a role to play in all this, remember? She is still under a Geas to kill Sinvyl Bar'ritar,_" the Seer reminded, "_And might I also remind you that according to all our reports, Sinvyl, too, is marching with the Lith My'athar assault force? Before she gets here, I want to know how much can we count on her would-be assassin to do her job._"

Of course there was much more to it than that, they all knew, but the Seer obviously wasn't willing to be completely straightforward just yet. Letting his curiosity get the best of him, Imloth leaned back into his chair and prepared to listen to what would no doubt be an amusing, if rather short story.

**_& & &_**

_**Desecration**_

"_Challenge my own world to chaos  
Thoughts to mind becomes my arch enemies  
Skin to teeth... visions appear to me in red  
Scouring my wounds with your spit"  
("Opus Relinque," Tristania)_

The stench of blood, flowing and dried alike, increased with every next step he made. The robed figure placed the final offering on the altar, turned around and pushed back the hood. Kimmuriel found himself staring into the face of a memory.

A homely drow male, his hair cropped short and with skin more grey than black. Intelligent green eyes topped a small cynical smirk that granted a new dimension of charisma to the otherwise unattractive features. At the same time, a skinless face, one eye gouged out, the other still hanging from its socket on a thin, oozy thread. Robes, the color of the Night Above, wrapped tightly about the slim figure. Robes, parted and in tatters, revealing raked abdomen and a ribcage cut open and spread wide. Intestines spilled onto the floor in a smelly heap, broken bones pierced the flesh from the inside out. Smooth skin, and skin treated with acid; slender muscles, and muscles removed from the bone; arms in bracers and arms in shackles… Both images stood distinct. At the same time, both merged into one.

Kimmuriel blinked. All around him, the specters of the past displayed a similar duality; even the temple itself seemed to blink back and forth through… memory? Surely that was what this strange new phenomenon was. Two memories of the same place, both equally strong and both equally meaningful to the mind that stored them.

The psionic took a step back and leaned against one of the supporting pillars as a tremor ripped through the ground. Ghosts of drow long dead went about their own business, brushing against him or passing right through him. At the same time, same ghosts engaged in a bloody battle as the doors flew open to admit a charging Straeka squad and a score of trainee priestesses behind. Another shudder shook the foundations of the old temple causing the walls to crack. Thick streams of blood suddenly seeped out through the cracks and carried on the current, the spiders crawled in, swarming the temple grounds. A bright ball of flame whizzed past him and split the altar in half and the first auditory sensation finally broke through in the form of a scream.

It wasn't an actual scream, Kimmuriel realized as he reinforced his anchor in his own mind lest he, too, got carried off by this tidal wave of unleashed memories. It was a scream from within, ripped straight out of the inner lungs and forced through severed vocal cords incapable of producing such a sound in the real world outside. And as the sound drilled a screeching hole through his eardrums, two things caught the psionic's attention at once. Or rather, two persons did.

Highlighted in a flaming scream, a muscled drow sliced his double-edged greatsword through another's abdomen and grinned a grin of one drunk with blood and deceit. _Ah…_ Kimmuriel matched the grin with a knowing one of his own. He had seen this drow before, though on those occasions the psionic had seen him, he no longer wore the Masked God's symbol as his own.

Low chanting, potent with power and braced in iron-clad confidence came from somewhere behind and to the left of him. The psionic shifted his focus that way, already suspecting what he would see. And predictably enough, there she stood – Sinvyl Bar'ritar, basking in her L'loth-given glory and beckoning her pet traitor back to her side.

Kimmuriel was fully aware it was just a memory playing out around him, yet he couldn't help but shudder uncomfortably as Ra'sin passed straight through him following his mistress' outstretched hand.

Pushing the sensation aside, he focused on the priestess again, more pointedly on the growing aura of emerald ashes around her. Finally! That was what he had come here for. Readjusting his mind's eye, he let his consciousness surge forward and into the venomous glow, stretching himself and his senses thin to cover that aura like a tight-fitting shroud and absorb every smell, taste and color associated with it. Should he find the slightest trace of craving vengeance in there, his trip into this wreckage of a mind would not have been in vain.

But what he tasted instead was the rotting skin of a corpse, dead again for the third time. And as significance of number three came back to him in full swing, the roof of the temple exploded into thousands of pieces, admitting raging desert wind inside. Walls of the temple crumbled to dust, the ground beneath his feet dissipating to reveal crystal-white glass and swirling darkness of the Void below while needle-sharp grains of sand stabbed into his suddenly exposed flesh.

And as the last of the temple faded before his eyes, the wail of the wind finally formed into words in his ears.

_My mind…_

_MY MIND….!_

_**MY MIND IS MY TEMPLE!**_

**_& & &_**

_**The Temple…**_

_"I still don't see how do you think any of it is relevant,"_ said Rizolvir shaking his head.

"_Humor me,"_the Seer smiled at him with her mouth alone. Rizolvir shifted in his seat, suspecting this whole game primarily served the purpose of reminding him that things couldn't be kept from the Seer and only secondly as the off-shot chance of learning something useful. Very well…

The request was voiced roughly ten minutes ago. The information revealed thereafter could be summed up thusly:

Once upon a time in Ched Nasad, there lived a cocky, backstabbing bastard named Izzlyn who didn't like the idea that females could disembowel him at will and whim. He took to a life of secrecy and silent plotting as a priest of Vhaeraun. It got him disemboweled anyway, only in a bit more roundabout way. Between those two events, he ran a scheme or three in both Menzoberanzzan and Ched Nasad until he got uncomfortably close to being discovered. Then he fled to the surface somewhere near the desert city of Calimport where, presumably, he established a small Vhaerunite band again and in between whatever and whatever else it is that Darkmasks do with their time on the surface probably managed to sire one crackheaded shadowdancer along the way.

When the Seer said "humor me", Rizolvir took the statement to heart.

She took it in good graces, though. She nodded to the smug-looking craftsman and dismissed him. The three commanders followed suit. None of them took notice of her leveled stare plastered on the tiefling's form until the last of his twitching tail was out of sight.

The weapon master had changed…

**_& & &_**

_**Sea Of frozen Shades**_

"_Emptiness is filling me  
To the point of agony  
Growing darkness taking dawn  
I was me, but now he's gone"  
("Fade To Black" Metallica)_

The glass beneath his feet burst into pieces. Shards dissolved into ashes and swirled. And he was falling down.

The lurch in his stomach wasn't one of panic but of pure shock. How, in the name of the Abyss, did the ibltih get alerted to a foreign presence in her mind? And just how aware of it was she anyway?

Thoughts drifted through Kimmuriel's mind even as it drifted itself, afloat in the empty darkness beneath the shifting sands.

It was cold. Colder then he expected it to be. And silent. Or so it appeared. There was a fine line of division in there somewhere, border between coldness of sharp winterwinds and coldness of the Void. The one inside the Void was born of emptiness but the silence in here was anything but peaceful. Kimmuriel focused his efforts on detaching himself from the sensations as much as possible. Getting lost inside another's desolation wasn't in his plans for the night.

It was harder to do down there. Down there, at the innermost mind, at the very core of madness. He could feel the cold seeping through him almost physically. Emptiness greeted him into it's welcoming embrace. Frozen outlines floated in darkness beside him, vague shapes of what might have been emotions had they ever been… alive.

Through sheer power of will, Kimmuriel halted his pointless spin and paused to reorient. He never planned to end up this deep inside the iblith's subconsciousness –the section of mind most dangerous to intrude and remain unabsorbed- and he certainly never expected it to look quite like _this_. Whatever other psychosis he was prepared to find (and he found those aplenty), being all short of actually _dead_ wasn't one of them. That just… wasn't possible, he knew that for a fact. But all evidence pointed to the contrary right now. What, then, made this creature here still draw breath? The answer, however twisted it may prove to be, had to be buried even deeper.

The meaning of time was fading fast. The psionic's inner clock told him it was no longer then a span of few breaths that he had spent here so far, but on the inner side of nothingness, time was an arbitrary dimension. As were "up" and "down". To get closer to the core of this place, any direction would do as long as he could find a single beacon to follow. And this place was frustratingly devoid of those.

He looked about him meditatively, allowing tiny spiders of angry annoyance free reign of his spine; any emotion was preferable to desolation he found himself saturated in. Any… emotion… at all…

_Flick!_

Startled, he blinked as what looked like a top of a fin flashed somewhere in the gloom. He spun about quickly triangulating the rest of the space around him using the 'fin' as the central spot. Something in the back of his own mind clicked into place.

_Any emotion at all…_

Of course! _That_ was the beacon he needed! _That_ was the answer to the puzzle before him. He dived to follow the rapidly clearing trail before him and didn't even bother to smother the laughter in his throat.

_& & &_

Moments later, his feet touched the soft, unsteady surface that, for the occasion, could be labeled temporary bottom of the sea.

_Any emotion at all…_

Carefully, he prodded the gooey bottom with his toe. With a light shiver, a small blob of gas formed, floated up and ended it's brief existence in a gassy pop. The gas smelled faintly of soft bed sheets and food. Another blob popped nearby, this one releasing searing steam of pain with a hiss. Both appeared equally welcome and both dissolved into cold ash before getting anywhere near the surface. Potential for emotion was there, it's just that it always failed to be realized. Not for the lack of want, but of ability, whether the ability lay dormant or was absent altogether. But the craving was strong. The gelatinous surface writhed constantly, yet right now the weight of emptiness above it pressed it down to near-inertia.

Death and craving. The two didn't mix well together, did they now? _Unless…_ The psionic smirked. Unless one steps out of conventional viewpoint and attempts to approach from the opposite direction. The two _did_ mix in some instances after all. Why else did zombies of the world seek warm flesh; why else did vampires crave blood? Undeath, in all it's forms, craved life, attracted to it like foolish apprentices to a summoning lab. Undeath, whether physical or mental, sought the very thing it mimicked. An undead could not commit suicide – it could only seek true oblivion or life. And with oblivion resembling the Void too closely for comfort, the other path was the only alternative. The fact that a deadened soul inhabited a still-living body only paved the road forward with heavier stones.

Kimmuriel snorted in slight bemusement. While this proved to be an educational excursion, it still told him little of the iblith's likely course of actions in near future. But little was still better than nothing and if strong revulsion towards being touched, let alone chained, physically or mentally held any significance, he grew increasingly hopeful that what this iblith would choose to do in the end ran in accordance with his own designs. It may take the shadow-dweller much longer than it took him to realize that, though. Which left him with the unpleasant task of giving her a spur on in the appropriate direction.

For a brief moment, he considered planting a compulsion right then and there, straight into the very soil he stood on but quickly decided against it. Anything planted in here would take way too long to swim up and make itself known if it ever managed to swim upwards at all. As a matter of fact, any compulsion planted anywhere in a mind so splintered might take ages to reach the front lines of consciousness. There was practically no telling in which numerous ways it would get itself distorted by the time it does.

And last but not least, there was a matter of the Geas to be taken into consideration. He could feel the pulsing of the spell's threads all over the place and while he remained undecided as to how much the dancer was resisting it for the sheer spite of the act, he remained absolutely certain that placing another compulsion on top of that would only make an even fatter mess of the place. If such a thing was even possible.

In other circumstances, it would be amusing to observe in what way the mind would explode under dual-compulsion pressure, but too many things lay precariously balanced on this shaky scale for the psionic to indulge in anything other than idle speculation.

With a sigh, Kimmuriel squatted down into a crouch. If he was to get anything done with this mind, he would have to take it up with it's owner. A highly unpleasant task. And made even worse by the fact that his actual physical body was sitting barely few feet away from an armed shadowdancer. If said shadowdancer was growing any wiser of his presence within her mind, (and he was still curious as to how she managed to do it in the first place), his body might find itself in a quite uncomfortable position, Kinetic Barrier notwithstanding. Kinetic Barrier was good for many things, blades and punches included, but it still offered no protection from the impact of a fall.

With that last sobering thought in mind, Kimmuriel tensed his imaginary muscles and propelled himself up.

**_& & &_**

_**The Temple…**_

The Seer sat and cupped her chin in one hand, drumming the fingers of the other on the smooth stone table surface. Valen was changing, and not for better. It bothered her. Greatly.

Looking back, she could only reprimand herself for not taking notice sooner. Or not giving the issue due attention in time. The first step was Zessyr. Breaking Valen's addiction to whatever drug she had used on him was fairly easy in retrospect. Getting him to re-conquer his newly-roused anger wasn't. She should have insisted on it more. Instead, she allowed him to spiral down further, presence of a certain dancer almost every step of that way serving only to spur him on.

And then came this final blow in form of a baatezu army. If there was one thing Valen didn't need at the moment, it was even the slightest reminder of the life he chose to leave behind, let alone one as clear and pointed as this. The Seer sighed and looked at the ceiling, willing it to give her an answer on how to best approach the tiefling about the issue. But the ceiling remained stubbornly silent and her thoughts drifted back to the shadowdancer again.

Shi'van… While she couldn't prevent a baatezu march and had no options but to act as she had back when Zessyr first approached her about the weaponmaster, she certainly could have arranged matters so Valen and Shi'van saw less of each other than they had. Or failing that, she at least could have (and should have) paid more attention to the tiefling's growing uneasiness and annoyance with her.

Spilt milk, she heard surfacers say on occasions such as this. What came to pass, had and there was no helping it now. If Valen grew more angry when around her and colder and more distant when not, the only thing the Seer could do was to try and stop matters from deteriorating further.

But for that, she would have to approach the tiefling in private and lately, he hadn't been responsive to such attempts – behavior reminiscent of the dancer's own, a fact that didn't escape the Seer's attention. And the fact she decided then and there would change no matter what effort it took on her part.

**_& & &_**

_**Psychodelinquent**_

"_Feel my fingers in your wound while my eyes ascend the gloom  
Questions wasting all my time - I see your eyes detesting mine  
Sick of a life you never had, e.dead.motion, you look so sad  
I could care less if I'd like - I let you go into the night"  
("Rumors About Angels", Diary of Dreams)_

They were waiting for him. A girl and her dog; a shadow and a beast.

_Out…!_

Kimmuriel centered his attention on the wolf-like apparition as he emerged from the depths and landed on shifting desert sands once more. The mind's owner remained an unfocused mirage in front of his mind's eye, but the black creature was as sharp and present as the psionic himself.

So that was the culprit…

_Get out…!_

The beast growled, glaring at him malevolently. The psionic stiffened slightly. The host mind was mad and also mad at this invasion, but it was the beast who was far more dangerous to him right now. And not only because he could feel a partly demonic aroma about it but because, at the edge of perception, he could also feel the actual physical beast about to snap it's muzzle around his body's unprotected neck. Kinetic Barrier would protect him from the attack, but would it be enough to prevent suffocation as well?

_Get out of my mind…! _

They say nothing's quicker than a thought and for once, the proverbial _they_ were right. Even as the beast outside closed it's jaws shut and the beast within sprang at him, the psionic released a burst of his own.

It was a gamble, but one Kimmuriel was sure he would win. There was a connection between these two creatures – barely visible webbing stretched between the pair's minds; not quite like a wizard and a Familiar nor quite like a druid and a Companion, but the connection had pretty much the same quality and effect. And for that reason, Kimmuriel knew the beast would not allow it's bonded partner in crime to get hurt.

An instant before the beast inside reached him, Kimmuriel exploded. As the beast hit the ground, he reassembled behind it. In the span of time between those two actions, a span to which no outside measurement of time could be applied, spiked extensions of his mind coiled firmly around the vital synapses of the host's autonomous neural system. Her breathing functions, her heart beats and everything else down to even her digestion system were instantly as firmly in the psionic's grasp as was his own throat wedged in between the beast's tightening jaws outside.

And the beast knew it.

Slowly, it turned around and looked the psionic in the eye. He noticed with no small amount of distaste the beast hardly had to look up to do it. Behind him, the host's form solidified itself somewhat but remained docile. No stranger to being used as bargaining chip, that one... He stepped aside so he could keep both in his line of vision and began pondering his next action.

They were in a status quo now – more preferable than open attacks but still far from perfect in everyone's opinion. He needed to get out. The wailing wind echoed his sentiment. The host's mirage met his gaze.

_What do you want…_

Kimmuriel smirked as the dunes around him shifted in the wind, their tops acquiring fine crust of ice. They were agitated with being trod on by uninvited parties, yet frosty pragmatism already worked out that whatever he was looking for in here, he had already found it. The shadow beast growled again. The specter of the woman still stared.

In any other circumstances, she would be long gone beneath the sands. Hating it as much as she did, it was still her place of retreat. The two things that held her rooted to the spot were tightening strands between her and her beast and the knowledge that he had already been down there himself, meaning he could easily follow should he so desire. With no places left for retreat, the only option was to stand her ground and wait to see what would happen next.

Part of it was sheer resignation, but dead had the patience few others could match and the advantage of the worst having already happened to them. Of course, this intrusion demonstrated there was a whole plethora of possibilities stretching beyond the line of "the worst"…

"_What do you want?"_ This time, it was an actual voice Kimmuriel heard, a sign that the woman was now fully present in this reality. He glanced sideways at the still-growling beast. He heard that sometimes the surfacers who lost their sight would employ guide dogs. This was pretty similar to it he decided.

Instead of answering, he reached out and plucked a Geas string that floated nearby. The thing reverberated with a discordant 'twang' that made the female wince.

"_Will you be dancing to this tune as well?"_

Ever the stubborn practitioner of introspection, she turned and blooded her fingertips on the screechy thing while pondering the question in a display of a rare moment of lucidity.

Eventually, she shrugged: _"Depends I guess…" _

…on which way of dying would prove preferable at the moment: being burnt from the inside by the spell or from the outside while attempting assassination. She never said the words – rivulets of venom spelled them out across the sand. Kimmuriel cursed silently. Wasn't there _anything_ that would make this female…?

On the distant horizon, a city shimmered in silvery cold with promises of quiet shadows and solace within them, but drifting further and further away with every passing breath. The road leading to it was paved with bloodstained gold.

Hundred thousand golden coins, rolling off Synvil's corpse.

Kimmuriel grinned at the spectral woman unpleasantly. If money was the means to an end, Synvil's death was obviously a big part of it. Unlike blank insanity, the inner mercenary was easy to deal with and Bregan D'Aerthe always had coins to spare, especially when it's own survival was at stake.

"_Half that sum,"_ he said pointing at the blood money at his feet, _"and a pick of stash items when you reach Skullport and Synvil doesn't."_

The offer was more generous then he had cared to make, but it served two important purposes: it would both give the woman a spur in right direction _and_ allow Kimmuriel to walk away from here without provoking a fight. Attempting to slay whatever managed to invade her inner sanctum was an impulse she would no doubt act upon first chance she gets, but greed and logic presided over blind urges in this one. Attempting to slay a paying customer was not good business sense.

Taking hardly a blink to consider the offer, she nodded her consent even before the last echo of his words died down. And not a moment too soon. The sands were getting increasingly shifty, wind howled with increasing madness and top of it all, out on the other side he could feel the beast's saliva dripping under his shirt and down his back. It was high time to evacuate the premises.

**_& & &_**

_**From Dusk Till Dawn…**_

The city was silent on the outside, yet hushed whispers ran through it's underbelly like maggots through a corpse. News like baatezu tend to spread fast no matter what one does to prevent it. Ignorance on the subject would have afforded the defenders at least one last night of relatively peaceful sleep (as much as that was possible in the circumstances). Delaying the news until the next day would have been preferable, but no one in high command was delusional enough to really believe that was possible to achieve.

Tomorrow morning, the entire defending force would get the full briefing. Tonight, they would whisper and shiver and wildguess the time away. Sleep was not to be the commonly won prize of the night.

_& & &_

The Seer sat on her bed. She knew she should go back to sleep, but simply couldn't. The strain and the pressure were building up and even she was now caught in their throes. Sighing deeply, she reached under her bed, pulled out a small wooden box and, almost reverently, raised the lid. Inside, engraved with silver, rested a delicately crafted lute.

Carefully, she took the instrument out and struck a few notes. Fine-tuned, as ever, she smiled, then adjusted her grip and struck a complex cord. Soft, soothing sound filled the room, easing her tension and soothing her troubled mind. The Seer closed her eyes. She started to play.

Gently, her fingers caressed the lute and beneath their tips, tones formed on the strings like morning dew on leaves; rising up to the air, weaving a soft, haunting melody that hinted at the night sky, twinkling stars and a crescent moon above. Slow and entrancing, the music swirled around her, reaching deep inside and touching her very soul. It made her feel calm. It made her feel close to her goddess.

For many hours, the Seer played. She played, and prayed to the Dark Maiden to see them through.

**_& & & & &_**

_**Foreclosure Of A Dream…**_

Darkness. I thread through the darkness, not knowing who I am any more. My footsteps fall silently on the silken shadows, and I feel uncertain and lost.

I thread through the darkness and I'm diving in deeper.

I walk the secret garden of my own soul. I fear what I will find there.

My eyes are closed; and I feel hurt.

"_I'm your dream, mind astray  
I'm you're eyes while you're away  
I'm your pain while you repay_  
…_Sad but true"_

I am falling… I feel the strength leaving my knees. I see the world around me shatter, and I struggle to keep the pieces together! I try to hold on, but… I cannot help it!

I know this was all a dream, and I know waking up is at hand.

I know this was all a dream…

…I know that I was, too.

"_You, you're my mask  
You're my cover, my shelter  
You, you're my mask  
You're the one who's blamed"_

I hear the footsteps behind me. I cannot turn. I cannot bear to look! I hear the mocking laughter; its chill, venomous shards piercing my very soul and… I feel cold hands closing around my neck… I'm down on my knees and… I am choking! I struggle, I struggle so hard! But…

I look down at my body and… I see it fading! My… my body is fading away! I am translucent… I am unreal… I am but an illusion, and I am about to disappear.

And… I… cannot… fight… back.

I look up and I gasp. The hands that choke me… they are my own! I am choked by my own hands! And that venomous laughter… it comes from my own throat! Those shards of ice… They are my soul.

And… I… cannot… prevail…

**I choke **myself** on the ground. I close my fingers about **my** neck tightly. I look at **my** pathetic **self** on the ground and I laugh the venomous ice. **

**I am free, and I am reborn. **

**I**** am… I ****am****… **

"_Hate, I'm your hate  
I'm your hate when you want love  
Pay, pay the price  
Pay, for nothing's fair"_

_**I stand aside and I observe **_myself _**fading as **_**I**_** choke **_myself _**to death. And I listen, with calm satisfaction, to the sound of **_**my**_** own laughter. At last, it is as it should be.**_

_**I am the venom, the darkness and the ice. I always was, and always will be. The times of weakness and pretense are no more. I shall not fall asleep again.**_

_**The dreamer shall awake, and I shall be there, just one thin barrier away. And when the time comes, I shall shatter the barrier, and the dreamer and I shall merge at last. We shall become one. I will be complete. We shall reunite.**_

_**I will be me again.**_

"_I'm your truth, telling lies  
I'm your reasoned alibis  
I'm inside, open your eyes  
I'm you_  
…_Sad but true"_


	31. Deathwatch

**Note:** In the previous chapter, I forgot to credit Euphorbic so I am correcting that now. Kimmuriel's apprentice that was referenced there is her character, Jaka, and both him and Kimmuriel's method of mind-merging (which is also an adaptation of a technique Euphorbic first described) appear in Euphorbic's story titled "Devil takes Hindmost" in Forgotten Realms section. I cordially recommend reading it – it's really, really worth it.

_**Glossary**__**: **_

_Bautha-Z'hin_ – the "dodge-and-walk" fighting style was already described in one of the previous chapters. I _think_ it was Countdown To Extinction…

_Streeaka_ – "reckless" or "fearless" or "suicidal"; the word most often used to describe berserk, suicidal behavior, usually in the name of L'loth but applicable to other circumstances as well.

_Cambion_ – although a result of a greater or a true tanar'ri mating with a mortal, cambions are tanar'ri themselves, rather than mere half-breeds. Their own offspring, however, is mortal. In other words, they make tieflings.

_Alu-fiend_ – like cambions, these are tanar'ri as well. Exclusively female, they are fathered by mortals but their mothers are succubi.

_Xaositects, Fated, Bleakers (Bleak Cabal), Dusties (Dustmen) _and_ Indepts (League of Independence)_ – are Sigil fractions. Explaining them in detail would take too long so either look them up yourselves or read up on them on my forum - I'll post additional information on them there if there's a demand.

The term "deathwatch", I am told, used to be an unofficial local military term that refers to guard duty with maximum battle readiness during which there is little to no sleep, a whole shitload of stress and "shoot first and don't even bother asking questions" policy is applied.

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 19 **

**Deathwatch**

* * *

_**The Prowler**_

A disgruntled beast prowled aimlessly through the streets. Shadowy fur bristled, eyes glowing dangerous yellow and ears pressed tight to the skull, the fiend let out an occasional deep, quiet growl as he skulked along. Earlier that morning, he passed by a raised plateau near the main city temple. The entire defending force of the city had been gathered in front of it. Far as he could tell, a speech of some kind or other went on. He had slid back into the shadows near the building several paces behind the central spot and listened for a while. Nothing overly interesting was said. At any rate, nothing the entire city didn't already know about.

Karandras paused briefly, recalling the smell of the event. The most prominent scent was the sharp aroma of anxiety, so thick it was almost palatable. An occasional wisp of resignation, several prickly intakes of outright fear and the prevailing fragrance of aggression. The crowd was _not_ happy about what it heard. You didn't need the olfactory senses of a canine to figure that out. And the crowd being predominantly drow, aggression was the first-choice natural outlet for any and all displeasures on the daily menu. None of it, though, topped _one_ odor in particular…

Scribble as hard as he might, the tasty little winged morsel could never depict the current mindset of the tiefling as good as Karandras could smell it. The taste of sheer rage that assaulted the shadow wolf's nostrils was something no bard could describe. So strong, so… potent that when it reached the fiend's palate he felt like biting it in half. The fact that it was still suppressed had lent it a particularly steamy coating, reminiscent of a fresh roasted wyvern chop straight out of the oven and with a pretty similar effect on Karandras' taste buds. Multiplied by, say, ten. And adding one for good measure, for the shadow fiend found himself more sympathetic to that smell then he would have wanted to admit, even if bribed by a kobold-on-a-stick.

If he were a biped, he would have muttered something under his breath right then. Being what he was, he simply let out another rumbling growl and started moving through the streets again, pausing every now and then to lift his hind leg next to a mound, corner of a building, pole and occasionally an unsuspecting leg as well. It was long established that the form defines a mind that inhabits it. Well, some aspects of it at least. Being generally canine shaped did come with a few quirks of it's own.

_**& & & & &  
**_

_**The Watching Game**_

Barely two hours of sleep haven't put Nathyrra into much better mood then she was in last night. It also made fighting her murderous urges even more difficult then before. The wry grins Tarnash occasionally threw her way, and without ever actually appearing to do so, only added the proverbial oil to the flames. With so much depending on him now, the male milked it for all it was worth. Perhaps, she mused, annoyed, once the battle is in full swing or once they had started their retreat, the new Maeviir leader just might have a little… accident on the way.

_& & &  
_

Like Nathyrra, Imloth too observed the mutinous Maeviir leader when he caught himself wondering idly about Tarnash's real surname. Everybody was so used to thinking of him as a Maeviir but in truth, with the last of it's noble bloodline gone, the name of the House was obliterated from memory, as if it never existed at all. Such was the drow custom – those who had failed were erased from their history; in drow world, only the winners mattered. Given their current circumstances, the words rang particularly true in Imloth's ears. Which was why his gaze continuously scanned the warriors' ranks, his ears trained on murmurs and whispers, his eyes following quick hand signals flashing through the assembly. He divided his attention between Valen's lesson and trying to single out individual faces and guess at their reactions from their expressions alone. Knowing your enemies was important. Knowing your allies even more so.

Standing at the opposite end of the grounds, Tarnash was engaged in a similar enterprise, although for reasons slightly different from those of his rival. While both tried to mark possible deserters and potential troublemakers, the Eillistraeean commander silently worked out the ways to keep those in check once the decisive battle starts. The newly-swayed Vhaeraunite merely kept track of them, adding them, in his mind, to the numbers he already had under his command. He conceded to adding his troops to the city's defense, but the moment the tide of battle turned against them, he and his would be the first to leave the fray. Those among the warriors who valued their skin over their ideals (and being drow, there was no shortage of those) would undoubtedly join Tarnash and his band in their flight out of the city. Whether they'd prove to be valuable additions to the growing Vhaeraunite ranks or just convenient fodder for the devils at their backs mattered little to the rebellious commander. He'd use them whichever way he found convenient and in doing so, ensure his core troops' continued survival.

And maybe, just maybe, once the battle was over and the retreat begun, he could see to it that a certain assassin got a bit… lost in the wilds, accidentally running into pursuing baatezu. While he enjoyed the female's frustration immensely and indeed amused himself by subtly rubbing his new rank up her nose, he didn't forget for a second just how dangerous were assassins in general and this one in particular. Saldrin and Cahlind were enough – he wasn't about to let Nathyrra join Tarnash-backstabbing ranks too.

_& & &  
_

"_Remember, __Bautha Z'hin__ is the only effective tactics against them! They are reckless. Use that against them! They are also prone to going berserk – by the time any of you get to face them, chances are they'll already be… '__streeaka__'. Do not underestimate them for it! They are bred for combat and combat alone!" _Valen bellowed, pointing at the life-size illusion of an infernal creature known as barbazu. Standing roughly six feet tall, with clawed hands, moist reptilian skin and a foul-looking beard,it easily towered over most drow, male and female alike..

"_If you get hit, you'll keep on bleeding until you are healed magically! If you get hit by the beard, you might contract some disease as well!"_

Looking at the huge saw-toothed glaive that glinted ominously in the creature's hands and the long beard languidly swishing left and right, the troops had no problems imagining the effects either could have on a frail drow flesh.

"_You are all more or less familiar with whip fighting styles! Treat tails as another form of whips,_" the lesson continued, moving on from the berserk core fighters onto their commanders - the nine-foot tall monstrosities known as cornugons. Only vaguely humanoid, plated with thick, overlapping scales and adorned with huge bat-like wings, there was no apparent weak spot on the entire creature. Coupled with their impressive spell array such as Lightning Balls or Fire Walls they could enact at will, it was not hard to see why were those creatures regarded as the elite fighting force of Baatorian armies. The fact that this tiefling here fell a number of those things in his Blood War days gave the troops a significant pause. Either those fiends weren't _as_ tough as they appeared to be or their tiefling commander was an even bigger bad-ass than they had previously assumed. Probably, it was equal measures of both, with the odds slightly favoring the bad-assed side of the argument.

Tail swishing from side to side in sharp, rapid movements, his imposing bulk towering over all those around him, the tiefling warrior's gaze informed everyone in attendance that confronting a devil in battle was still a preferable option to confronting _him_ instead. He never said it out front, but the fierce, almost feral stance of the horned half-fiend left little room for misinterpretation. While tactical retreat _had been_ a part of their battle plans, those who tried to hightail it before the official call was given would, far as the tiefling was concerned, receive a short and brutal lesson in the importance of following commands. The prospect of having a lesson spelled out to you in your own intestines suddenly made devil-fighting seem like a much healthier option.

At the back of his mind, Valen knew the illusion could only last so long. Right there and then, _he_ was the most fear-inspiring creature in sight; once the first barbazu sliced someone in half with it's beard and claws alone or a cornugon or a gelugon entered the fray, all bets would be off. But if he could stall the moment of mass desertion for just a fraction longer, then by Abyss, he'd do it… even if it meant tearing one or two of his own soldiers apart.

At the front of his mind, even that didn't matter any more. The front of his mind was just a effervescent mess of blind fury aimed at everything and everyone and for any reason at all. It was only through the sheer power of will that he was able to keep it on the leash and point it in a more-or-less proper direction. …For now. He wondered for how much longer would he'd be able to keep it up.

_& & &  
_

On her side of the grounds, a young deva was doing her best to work out the proper tactics for confronting the flying abishai and other, more powerful, denizens of Baator. The gelugon and, should it come to that, the Pit Fiend general himself would not be faced by the warriors but the wizards and priestesses instead. Given the creatures' natural resistance to magic, that choice didn't appear too bright at the first glance, but compared against the prospect of losing about hundred or so -at least one third of all the warriors they had- to just six gelugon, pitting the casters against magic-defying devils didn't sound that bad after all. At least, the deva mused, they would be able to keep the fiends at bay while the more powerful among them attempted to do some actual damage with banishments and holy spells. It seemed to her, though, that she was inspiring slightly less confidence in her… "pupils" then the tiefling across the grounds had.

While the clerics of Eillistraee presented no difficulty, the Maeviir wizards, Ossyr's archers and even Nathyrra's scouts –the last two groups present mainly for the abishai briefing- certainly had their doubts. Unlike the night before, the last thing Lavoera needed to look like now was the beacon of hope. The drow did not see at her that way. Nor did they see her in any particularly favorable manner at all come to think about it. A race that regularly consorted with demons and their ilk and even worshipped one of them as a goddess naturally tended to be …reserved towards entities of the Higher Planes. And that left her with only one role to fill, and that was the one of a powerful asset to their fight.

All else aside, she did come here with the reputation of facing down a dracolich and her formidable healing and other casting abilities became evident soon after as well. Those two things combined lent her enough credibility to compensate for (and, she hoped, in time perhaps even outweigh) the initial negative reactions any drow here might have had to her presence.

Calmly, radiating as much confidence as she could muster, the deva patiently explained the pros and cons of certain spells to those assembled. Less experienced then her peers, the young deva still had plenty to offer to the baatezu in battle and none of it very gentle or nice.

Up from his perch on a nearby stalagmite, Rizolvir found the entire spectacle fairly amusing, but also decidedly disturbing. The silent threats passing back and forth among the commanders present didn't escape his attentive gaze. He could well sympathize with Tarnash's cockiness, so very similar to his own, but he never made the mistake of underestimating the male or the crafty brain that ticked behind those mocking eyes. He could well guess at the thoughts that were spinning inside the weapon master's head and he knew his own lover well enough to know similar thoughts occupied hers as well. He didn't, in any way, fancy going against either of them, no more than he fancied having to choose sides at some point. But neither did he fancy letting one kill the other. In days to come, he would have to measure both his steps and his actions carefully. And watch them, every step of the way…

_& & & & &  
_

The Seer studied the communication globes laid out in neat rows on the table in front of her. Several dozens of the smallest, marble-sized ones were ready and waiting to be handed to individual squad leaders. Two were set apart from the rest. First one was waiting for Rizolvir to come claim it; the craftsman needed to be informed of the needed supplies at all times. The second one was for Deekin and it was dubbed "The Tuning Fork". Whatever role the little kobold decided to fill in the oncoming events, his prime task was to make certain the rest of the globes kept functioning as intended. It might not seem like an overly important job, but the Seer knew better. With their entire defense tactics relying completely on precise commands and instant reactions to them, the fate of the whole city largely rested on one undersized pair of draconic wings.

At the end of each row of smaller globes rested a slightly larger, bluish hued one. Those were the commanders' globes. Next to them, two small fist-sized globes were humming softly and it was on those two the Seer's attention was focused right now. Originally, one was to be hers and the other one was to be held by the other leader of the city: Matron Zessyr. Out of the two, only the Seer was still here. So who, than, should have the other globe now?

The Seer bit her lower lip and looked at the last two commander globes in the row. The first six were for Valen, Imloth, Nathyrra, Ossyr, the golem leader Ferron and Illiam, her own second-in-command priestess. The remaining two were for Gulthrys and Tarnash respectively. With Gulthrys' death, his rank and thus his duties were handed down to the second most capable surviving wizard of the former House Maeviir. The Seer knew Ran'ree was nowhere near as powerful as Gulthrys was, but the older male _had_ survived several centuries of his life and saw no less then three Maeviir Matrons' rule in that time. What he lacked in power, he made up for in experience. Or so the Seer hoped. But the substitute wizard was not the source of her current worries – it was his leader that occupied her thoughts right now.

Tarnash… By rights of succession, the second major globe was to be handed to him. However, it was understood that Zessyr would be coordinating the defenses from her own throne room while Tarnash, even with his new rank, was still consigned to the defense lines at the main gates. His role hadn't changed alongside his rank and therefore, he still needed to have his original commander globe with him. Offering the major globe to someone else would require a certain measure of tactfulness on the Seer's part, but it was nothing she couldn't handle. Her main worry was who that 'someone else' would be.

The most obvious solution was Lavoera. Perhaps the deva wasn't as experienced as the rest of the commanders, but she was still far from clueless. At any rate, the Seer mused, Lavoera couldn't do any worse then Zessyr might have and where she lacked experience in battling drow, she had more then sufficient knowledge of the beings of the Lower Planes. But since the deva would also be stationed near the gates most of the time, the Seer could only hope the celestial was good at multitasking too.

That settled, the Seer turned her attention to the two separate globes again, reached into her robes and placed a third one beside them. While Rizolvir's was light red and Deekin's yellowish-green, the third one was dark grey and misty inside. Conversely, the one was to have it was misty on the outside and more than just a bit dark beneath. She was also still unaccounted for, ever since the bloody turnover at Maeviir compound. She attempted scrying on her earlier that morning, but to no avail: some item she wore was apparently designed to block out magical detection attempts. With some force applied, the Seer could break through the defense, but she opted not to. There was no telling what kind of effect that might have on the already unbalanced shadowdancer. And they needed the dancer as in control of her actions as she could possibly still be. She would attempt force-scrying only as the last resort, should Deekin fail to locate her and hand her her globe on time.

She passed her hand over the items feeling light tingling of magic on her palm as her thoughts passed from the shadowdancer and went back to Tarnash. The dancer aided the scouting missions greatly, made it possible for them to assault Zorvak'mur and, though unplanned, even helped in destroying the beholder hive. And yet, it was Tarnash that ultimately profited from her stay here. Something about that realization unnerved the Seer and she couldn't fathom why. The suddenly growing sense of uneasiness made her step away from the table and leave the chamber. She passed through the War Room, pausing only for a quick glance at the maps on her way out into the corridor and into the grand antechamber of the temple.

The feeling of being observed abruptly surged up and clutched at her throat. Cold breeze caught the edges of her robes, slapping soft silk against her thighs. The great temple doors slid open.

The Seer looked up. A thick patch of shadow resembling a half-mask lurked in the gloom outside, just beyond the doors. Light, no stronger than the Faerie Fire, shone blue and green through the mask's eye slits. The priestess stiffened. She reached inside herself and beyond, feeling her goddess and her own faith in her.

"_Be gone from this place, Dark One. The House of Eillistraee is not open for you,_" she whispered, forcing the words over her suddenly dry tongue.

The apparition shimmered in the darkness. For a moment, an outline of a slender drow body appeared beneath the mask. It lingered just long enough to give a pretense of a bow and then it dissolved into the shadows from which it came. Whether it was just a trick of the wind in her ears or if she really heard the lightest mocking chuckle as the temple doors slid shut once more, she couldn't tell. Whether this was just a mock courtesy call or if there was something more to it than that, she couldn't tell either. But what she could tell was that the Masked God's presence now fully cloaked the city. And while short of actually manifesting himself as such, through the many eyes in the shadows, the avatar was watching…

_**& & & & &  
**_

_**(What) Lies Within**_

"_Numb expectations in my shattering voice  
Face to face with existence  
Ashes of hope in my shivering hands__  
Melting illusions like a bridge to my dreams"  
("Shattered Disguise," Diary Of dreams)_

The evening was quiet. In the same way a dragon is quiet for a few seconds after it wakes up to find a handful of armed idiots in it's lair with their arms elbow-deep in it's treasure hoard.

The clerics gathered at the temple to rest, pray or commune with their goddess. In Maeviir compound, the wizards were sorting through scrolls and wands. Scouts and guards patrolled their appointed routes, occasionally startled by a nervous canine shadow prowling the darkness alongside with them. A deva perched in an alcove above the central city plaza, dreaming of Elysium. A kobold fluttered through the streets, making last-minute globe deliveries. Eyes without faces flickered in hidden shadows. And one tiefling walked the streets alone.

He was strangely calm. At the end of the day, it seemed as though his anger decided to take a nap. He wasn't certain he welcomed the reprieve. Perhaps because he knew the rage would return ten times as powerful after being temporarily drowned by numbness. Perhaps because he lacked the heated shield against his own thoughts his rage provided him with. He leaned back against the wall and looked up with a bitter smirk. Did it really take only this much? Were the events of the past few days really all that was needed to erase years of patient taming and set the beast loose once more? He pushed his hand through the blood red hair between his horns and snorted. Who was the fool, than? The Seer, for believing the Blood Wars brand could heal in time, or himself, for taking her up on the offer? It couldn't have been the Seer, so it had to be him – too weak to overcome what he was and become what he wanted to be. Whatever the hell that may be.

He shook his head and pushed away from the wall, continuing his pointless tour of the streets. Accidentally or subconsciously, his feet took him in the general direction of the city gates. He barely even noticed his surroundings until the bridge over the chasm separating the gates complex from the rest of the city was behind him. For a moment, he considered turning back the way he came but eventually, he continued through the inner courtyard and towards their lines of defense. Stacks of rations, healing potions and explosives were piled up on the city-side of the first gate wall. Eight heavy ropes, three on each side of the inner gate, so thick even golems had to grasp them in both hands, disappeared into the gloom above. The latest addition to the abishai net-traps – Once the creatures were caught in the pockets of the first net, the golems would tug at the ropes, coiling the first net up while releasing the second one down. That way, the second wave of fliers would be caught while the first one squirmed in the net under the archers' barrage.

The guards at the first gate stood to attention at his approach. He noted with equal parts amusement and somberness their stance didn't actually change much. They were at the edge, even more than it was the drow usual. He nodded briskly at the sentries and turned left towards a flight of stairs leading up the wall. Somewhere in the middle, the stairs parted opening into numerous sidewalks both on the outer and inner side of the merging stalactite and stalagmite mounds. More supplies were stashed in various alcoves throughout the virtual maze of passages. Every guard currently on duty was every bit as unnerved as the two he encountered below. And that was just the inner gate wall.

Eventually, he climbed down to the courtyard. Ossyr's shift wasn't about to start for another few hours. Instead, he was greeted by a Maeviir archer commander whose name he couldn't remember. She saluted him as he passed by, doing a marvelous job of hiding her anxiety. Was it over the oncoming attack or his own presence, he couldn't really tell. He caught himself not really caring either. At the pit of his stomach, anger boiled steadily but had yet to burst up his spine. He dreaded the explosion almost as much as those around him.

He cast an envious glance at two Maeviir soldiers levitating up to their posts at the outer wall and with a grunt, begun climbing the stairs. Several feet up, he finally recognized the feeling of calmness that overtook him. It was the same one he had a day ago in the War Room after the first wave of raging despair left him. It was the same one even senior commanders were backing away from. He was calm, solid as the adamantine gates beside him, yet he felt his gaze alone could probably melt straight through them. He forcefully slammed down the lid inside him, but he could still feel it budging, geysers of steam hissing angrily beneath. With every next step he made, he found himself wishing more and more for the attack to start. He needed an outlet for what was brewing beneath his skin. More desperately than ever.

_& & &  
_

Sound of the approaching footsteps alerted her to his presence. She didn't need to look. She knew who was coming her way. She learned to recognize the sound of his stride long ago. She didn't want to see him. She didn't want to see anyone. All she wanted was to be left alone. And if she couldn't be, he was the last person whose company she wanted to suffer. She didn't want to see him.

And with barely a conscious thought, she dispersed the shadows that shielded her from sight.

_**& & & & &  
**_

"_Confront me one last time to tell me all your lies  
I wish I had the power to make this anger go..._

_These creatures you call human  
have treated me like a schismatic  
_

_Please feed me with some truth  
I hunger for your bitter words"_

_("Traum:A", Diary Of Dreams)_

Valen paced the top of the wall, daring himself to be there and peer into the darkness beyond the city… knowing what would emerge from it. The cavern that housed the city narrowed abruptly at this section. It was literally a hole in the wall, perfect for building the defensive double gates mostly using the natural formation that was already there. Closer to the edge, the big wall sloped down at a slightly gentler angle then in the middle. From the bottom up, it was worked with spells and chisels until the edges, too, stood ninety degrees to the ground, but the very top still allowed for a few feet of steep climb down. It was a work done hundreds of years ago, ample time for small stalagmites to form along the short ledge. It was down that ledge that he now walked, getting as close to the source of his ire as he could without leaving the city perimeters. And it was on that ledge that he saw a patch of shadow disappear leaving a more solid one in it's wake.

Shi'van stared at the darkness outside. The green of her irises masked the red glow of darkvision her pupils emanated, making her eyes appear as twin spots of glowing blackness. She sat in a recess dangerously close to the edge, right leg bended, left leg half-stretched in front of her, the end of it's foot almost dangling over the rim. In her left hand, it's forearm adorned with a deep, fresh, acid-bitten scar, she clutched a bottle tightly, using her thumb in place of a cork. The elbow of her right hand rested against her right knee. Palm extended, she was rubbing her throat absentmindedly, fingers trailing the line of a tattoo hiding the old scar beneath.

Valen stopped in his tracks. A smaller part of him, the part that bristled at the very sight of her, felt the sudden urge to push the woman clear off the wall. The other, larger part, just stood and stared, unsure of his feelings at the sight of sinister apathy before him.

Aware of the awkward silence that settled over them, the tiefling eventually moved a step closer and, after a moment's consideration, sat down within a tails' reach. Some inner instinct told him not to invade her personal space any closer than that.

He realized suddenly, as he was settling himself and his weapon down, that these were their first few moments of peaceful coexistence in more than two months. Ever since they had returned from their first scouting trip to the beholders' lair and he learned the dancer used her second and final Resurrection to bring back Tarnash instead of Imloth there was a perpetual state of war between them. His last attempt at civil conversation blew up gloriously straight into his face leaving him seething and, yes, hurt more than he could have ever guessed possible. The words Imloth told him that day came back to him like a whisper from a past too distant to fathom. Could it be it was really just… four days ago when the drow had said them? It seemed like a small eternity now. He looked at the dancer again and found himself flooded by a rush of memories. One in particular emerged clearly in his mind.

"_Go ahead… Ask."_ Her voice, barely audible, cut through the darkness between them, distant and empty, as if all but a single spark of life was finally sucked out of it. Valen squinted.

"_What for?"_ he replied quietly, "_You never answer."_

The woman shrugged. "_That never stopped you before."_

Valen pursed his lips and considered her words. It was true – even if he knew no answers would be offered, he kept asking his questions anyway. He looked at her again. Something about her entire stance deviated slightly from the one he had grown used to by now. He couldn't put his finger on it, (the tilt of her head? the droop of her shoulders?) but something about it suggested that this time around, he just might get an answer or two out of her without the whole thing escalating into a fight three sentences in. He wondered what had happened to bring about such a change; if anything, he had expected her to play it even closer to the chest than before. Well whatever it was, he decided to seize the chance it presented him with.

"_Why __did__ you save me back at the Drearing's Deep? Really?"_

Shi'van stared at the darkness unblinkingly. It was almost five minutes now and the tiefling still wasn't shouting. She found his unusual calmness unnerving, for more reasons than one. She shifted uneasily, measuring her words for the best barbwire effect.

"_Meat shield,"_ she said flatly. "_We were only half way through the complex. More fighting seemed very likely and I always try to ensure someone else takes the beating in my place."_

Valen felt his tail stiffen as he inhaled sharply and clenched his jaw tight. He knew he had just been insulted. What he didn't know was whether he was more angry at the off-handed way she delivered the words or at the fact that he knew they were completely true. Ultimately, Shi'van always looked out for number one. Nothing new about that. Still, being relegated to the rank of a mere meat-shield did not sit well with the tiefling's guts.

A small grin crept up a side of her lip as she picked up the tell-tale signs of the tiefling's swiftly rising ire. Simple truth always proved to be the easiest way to set him off.

"_And that's it, isn't it?"_ he growled in reply, _"That's all I am? A meat shield!?"_

"_Sorry, were you expecting something else?"_ she taunted routinely, but her voice remained quiet and hollow. _"You keep complaining I never answer anything. Well now I have..."_

"…so choke on it" she added privately.

"_Or is your ego in __that__ dire need of stroking?_" she added out loud, piling an insult on top of injury.

She was still rubbing her throat, but the movements of her fingers slowed down, poised instead to grasp the acidic blade that rested in her bracer. She heard the crack of the knuckles as the tiefling clenched his fists in response. Already he was half-rising, though she didn't know whether he would follow through with a strike or just storm away. What she didn't expect, though, was for the tiefling to sit down again relaxing visibly.

He almost _did_ lash out right then, but in a last moment stopped himself from actually doing it. A thought flashed through his mind as he took in the sight of the shadowdancer and the words she just spoke. The damned creature was actually… _baiting_ him to strike out. She was bloody baiting him! As, the realization hit him, she had been doing every time before. And he, like the last fool, swallowed the bait every damned time, hook, line and sinker. _Well not this time, Darkblade,_ he decided grimly and forced his fists to relax, and his body back into a sitting position.

"_No more than your muzzle is in need of punching,_" he replied, as composed as he could get while stifling the snarling quality in his voice.

It was Shi'van's turn to stiffen. She wasn't used to ending up the choked party and surely, not as early as round one. And she most certainly wasn't used to having the tiefling suddenly decide to play her own game against her.

"_And why do you care about what I think of you anyway?_" she muttered, more to buy some time to recuperate than out of any real curiosity.

Valen smirked. Although a tiny part of him felt slightly embarrassed about it, he had to admit the sight of the shadowdancer caught so off-guard was a rewarding one. It didn't lessen the impact her words left on him though. _Why indeed…?_

"_I don't really,"_ he settled for a white lie eventually. _"But I do know my worth, Darkblade, and…" _

"… it goes well beyond a mere meat shield," he was going to say, but the sudden sharp jerk of her shoulders made him stop mid-sentence and regard her more closely.

Shi'van froze, mid-thought and mid-breath. _I do know my worth… _Curse him! He hit far too close to home for comfort this time. As if playing her at her own game wasn't enough, he had to slap her own litany across her face on top of it as well. She felt his gaze boring into her and realized just how obvious she let her discomfort show. It was another thing she never had to worry about before – the tiefling was usually too absorbed in his own fuming to pay attention to her mood. Damn him, he finally started learning. And he just had to pick the worst possible moment for it. As if any moment would have been the right one…

"_I do know my worth, Darkblade and I think so do you. So don't try to sell me the 'mere meat-shield' jive. Are you really enjoying getting me pissed that much you'd stoop to anything, no matter how pathetic, just to pull it off?"_

His voice, although soft, cut like a razor through her already bleeding ears. It grew calmer with every syllable spoken and that very calmness set off all the alarms in her head ringing to the maximum. Still… he might have the tables turned on her but she'd be damned if she doesn't push back. With whatever fight was still left in her, that is.

"_Worked so far…"_

"_But not any more,"_ he replied, driving yet another nail into the coffin lid. _"Why you are so intent on doing it still escapes me though…"_

Ah, he'd like to know, wouldn't he now? _Still haven't figured it out, have you, tiefling?_ Well, she sure wasn't about to spell it out to him.

Valen waited for a while, but got no answer for his effort. He found it didn't actually bother him that much. For the first time, he felt like he had the upper hand in the conversation (if this could be labeled one) and he found the feeling to be quite enjoyable one. He kept observing the dancer, his attention repeatedly drawn back to the scar that ran the length of her arm.

"_What's the dark of it?"_ he asked at length, nodding at it.

"_How old are you, Valen?"_

The tiefling blinked, momentarily taken aback. Her habit of changing subjects abruptly, following some tangled inner chain of thoughts apparently hadn't left her along with her sanity. Ah well… He leaned back and pondered the question presented. Tieflings could age any old how, depending on their bloodline, how far were they removed from the original stock, who they mated with in the meantime and Powers knew what else. Son of a cambion, a first-generation mortal, Valen found the question of aging even more convoluted than the rest of his kin by blood. Add to that the fact he was born in Sigil, spent time on various Planes in which time flowed differently than in others, the lack of any real reference point and what you got was…

"_I'm not sure,"_ he shrugged at length. _"But I must be… say… at least fifty or so,"_ he hazarded a guess. The dancer snorted a short-lived chuckle.

"_And in all that time, you never ever got drunk and then did something really stupid?"_

Valen stifled a chuckle of his own. _"Point." _

His thoughts turned from his confused timetables to the dancer's. As was the case with all half-elves, Shi'van's age was as difficult to guess at as was his own. She appeared young, at least in body, but that didn't have to mean anything where elves and their ilk were concerned. He reckoned she must have had at least two decades under her belt, though in experience (and certainly in cynism) it could just as well be two centuries instead. Or at least that was the impression he got. He cautioned himself against trusting his impressions though; too often had they proved to be wrong. _"So how old are __you__?"_

"_Thirty nine in about a month,"_ she replied with hardly a thought. He found that curious. Though never really saying anything outright, she did let out enough for him to assume she was a street child. And he knew first-hand that children of the streets rarely knew their exact age.

"_Drogan cast a Know Time spell on me once,"_ she offered, guessing his thoughts correctly.

Valen cocked his head. Thirty-nine. Almost forty. He never thought her _that_ old. True, she was world-weary, but one could get to that point in a matter of a few months if circumstances were right. Or, as it were, wrong. He knew that first-hand as well. Her circumstances, if he were any judge, were chock-full of 'wrong' almost all the time. How many of them could get squeezed into four decades of life? Much, he suspected. Enough, apparently, to drive the woman to insanity and back many times over.

"_Ain't it just peachy when history starts repeating itself?"_ she remarked flatly out of the blue, her unseeing gaze lost somewhere in the darkness, both beyond and within.

This time, it was Valen who stiffened, his own eardrums treated to the razor effect. He gritted his teeth and looked into the darkness himself.

"_Indeed,"_ he agreed dryly, wondering if her statement was just another attempt to set him off. If it was, than it hit the mark perfectly, although probably not in the way she had intended it to. _A jaunt down the memory lane with a full view of things you'd rather forget ever happened._ Those were her words, weren't they? And just to underline them further, a familiar smell suddenly invaded his nostrils - a smell tied ever so closely to things he'd rather forget ever happened that were about to happen all over again. He looked over his shoulder, following the source of the smell and saw she removed her thumb from the bottle she was holding. Sharp odor of Abyssal Wine filled the air between them as she took a long swig, never taking her eyes off the shadows ahead.

The smell was, for Valen, inextricably tied to Blood Wars. Almost every battle was marked by it, whether it had been in victory or defeat. And come to think of it, most of the time in between the battles also. The world obviously conspired against him fully he concluded. Wherever he turned, yet another reminder of times he had tried to leave behind rose to spit in his eye. Well, since that was the case already…

He extended his hand. _"Share?"_

She handed him the bottle wordlessly. He took it from her and somehow, felt the gesture marked the moment he had finally resigned to his fate. So be it then.

Following her example, he pushed his head back and took a deep swig. Sharp, burning flavor bit at his tongue and seared his palate. He closed his eyes and savored every scorching second of it. It was an acquired taste…

He placed the bottle back into the dancer's waiting hand and wiped his mouth with the back of his own. He noticed her fingers rubbed her throat more forcefully now. He wasn't the only one traveling the memory lane that night.

"_You faced her before, haven't you?"_ he stated as much as he asked, his voice hoarse from drink he just took.

Shi'van grimaced. That was it. Her past was just around the corner now, grinning wickedly, with only a few miles of the Underdark and several hours between them. And the tiefling just wouldn't let it go. But… it hardly mattered now, did it? One by one, her footholds were pulled out from beneath her legs until not even her mind was left as a safe retreat. She wouldn't, couldn't get herself to enter the Reaper's Realm any more, not after he called her her old name right before the Maeviir fall. And the experience of the previous night left her mind feeling like a flushed goblin drainage ditch. Still full of shit, but all the pipes now running fully. Nowhere left to go, no place left to turn… It was over. And with a shaky breath, she, too, gave up and resigned to her fate.

She looked at him sideways: _"Do you know why I never answer, Valen?"_ He watched her expectantly. _"Because I Don't. Want. To Remember. That's why. And you have the uncanny knack for stabbing right where you're least welcome."_

Valen blinked. She had been angry, she had been shouting, she had been pushed off-balance before, but in all the time he could remember, she never once so openly admitted to being… hurt.

"_I'm so- "_

"_Don't."_ She looked away again. _"It doesn't matter. Not any more. …I already went down,"_ she added so softly he had to strain to hear the last few syllables.

She fixed her eyes on the darkness once more, feeling scrambled and hollow inside out. Part of her already floated through the Void within. A small lump in her throat was all that was left. But it was still better than nothing. _Any emotion at all…_

Silence settled over the pair. For a long while, neither of them spoke or moved any more than passing the bottle back and forth required. It was almost a full hour and another bottle opened before silence was disturbed. It was Valen who spoke first.

"_It's been only four days since the dracolich. It seems like ages ago…"_ There was no reply. _"And ten years ago seem like they happened yesterday,"_ he finished the thought. _"…I never thought I would face this again,"_ he added quietly.

"_Same here,"_ Shi'van echoed his sentiment no more loudly than him. _"I never even thought about…"_ She stopped.

"_Go on,"_ he prompted softly, handing her the second bottle. _"It doesn't matter any more…"_

Shi'van took the bottle and swigged mightily from it. She breathed in deeply and, to Valen's honest surprise, started to talk.

"_I never even thought about Ra'sin until I saw him again. I thought I… I thought I left that behind me. In a way, I __did__ leave it. It was only when I faced him again that I felt like… paying him back."_

Valen listened in silence. Few days ago, he wouldn't know what to make of it. Now, he understood her sentiment more than he ever wanted. Few hours from now, he knew he would feel exactly the same, when he lays his eyes on a baatezu face for the first time in over a decade.

It was not a pleasant thought at all. Therefore, he seized the other which floated to the front of his mind and followed that one instead. If Shi'van reacted that way when she first saw Ra'sin, would she do the same with Sinvyl as well? It was on the treads of that answer that everything they had done so far depended on. And it was the one question he found himself completely unwilling to pose. He didn't even bother to puzzle out why. Now that she was finally talking, he wished he had never asked.

"_So how much you took from the hoard anyway?"_ he inquired instead.

The dancer shrugged non-committaly. _"Dunno. All I could get to fit in the Bag."_

Probably at least couple of thousands in items and gems alone, the tiefling mused. _"And the Undermountain is worth hundred thousand and you probably picked up at least half that much from the Undrentide before that…"_

Valen never owned much himself. He always kept good armor and a good weapon about him and just enough gold lining his pockets to buy him food, drink and an occasional company. He grew increasingly curious as to what, exactly, does one do with that much wealth.

"_You're always after more money. …Why? What in the Planes are you,"_ he accentuated his question by poking her lightly on the shoulder with the tip of his tail,_ " spending it all on?"_

The answer to that one simple question yielded more information about the dancer than the combination of all the tidbits he managed to pull out of her so far had.

"_You know I ended up in Sigil after I left the Shadow Plane?"_ she swatted his tail aside off-handedly, _" Well, there is this apartment, a small two-story place in fact between the Slums and the Forge, a corner away from the Black Sails. I bought it with what I got from Undrentide. I still owe a few thousands for it. The Undermountain money would have covered not only that, but furniture as well. …And probably had me set up for a while before I had to look for work again."_

Valen was stunned. It was so… simple, so… normal, he never would have thought of it himself. And the whole revelation suddenly bathed the picture in an entirely new light. What _did_ she care about the Valsharess, the rebels, the war when she had a small nest of her very own to go back to? What were the fates of all those involved in this mess, hundreds in this city and thousands more in Skullport and beyond when there was furniture to be bought and carpets to be brought in?

Just days ago, the very thought would have set him on fire instantly. Now, however, he remembered all too keenly how distant and unimportant the Prime Planes could be when you yourself were strolling through the Outer ones. He had made the business of this Prime Plane his own. She, conversely, made a decision to leave it behind and head Outside instead. Selfish as that may sound, he was slowly coming to terms with the fact the dancer simply had neither feelings nor morality required for a different approach. And… hadn't he known a number of Fated back in the day? One never blamed another for his beliefs out on the Planes. He didn't hold the Fated' selfishness against them no more than he blamed the Xaositects for their insanity.

He had changed since then, but the fact still remained – Shi'van simply did not care. It was he who had forgotten that in the end, it was none of his business if she didn't.

Another realization hit him soon after, as he wondered idly about which fraction she'd eventually end up with. She seemed equal part a customer for the Bleakers and the Dusties alike though her leave-me-alone attitude also placed her close to the Indepts ranks as well. Such musings were largely preferable to dwelling on his own recent failings and new-found sense of morality. Until, that is, he realized with a start how little any of it mattered any more.

Some people had big dreams. The Seer dreamed of redeeming as many drow as possible, snatching them from the clutches of the Spider and bringing them into the Moon Maiden's fold. The Valsharess dreamed of conquest way beyond the borders of her own city. And Shi'van dreamed of having a place to call her own. All three worked towards their goals, but due to the workings of the first two, the third one was very unlikely to achieve hers. It was a sobering thought. And, viewed in a certain light, a rather sad one, too.

Minutes trickled into the darkness as silence nested with them once more. On the wall behind them, the guards changed. More time passed.

"_Tell me,"_ Shi'van came back briefly from whichever thought-alley she currently walked, _"did you come out of the womb with or without those things on your head?"_

Valen paused. Where in the nine hells did that come from? _"…Just the stubs,"_ he replied cautiously, _"They grew to full length only afterwards. …Why?"_

"_It must have hurt like hell, squeezing you out…"_

"_I suppose so…"_ He was even more puzzled now. Such displays of empathy for anything that wasn't kobold-shaped were highly unusual in Shi'van. _"Tieflings are… equipped for giving birth to tieflings. Other races…"_ he winced briefly as a shadow of pain crossed his features, _"Women usually don't survive giving birth,"_ he finished awkwardly. _"Almost never with direct cross-breeds such as myself. The…"_

He paused again, trying to push the words through a rapidly drying throat. Obviously, he wasn't the only one around with a knack of hitting a painful spot in another. _"The only thing that kept my mother alive through it was… her value,"_ he spat at last, a bitter taste in his mouth. And surprising himself, he went on in spite of it.

"_She was one of the more expensive… merchandise in the brothel. When she learned she was pregnant, the brothel mistress," _the image of the alu-fiend flickered briefly across his vision, lighting a spark of impotent rage inside, "_allowed her to carry to term. Hoping for another female, likely. I suppose a boy came as kind of a disappointment. …Nothing that couldn't be used as well, though."_ He broke off his narrative to take another swig. _"It was some years later that new, younger merchandise replaced her. I don't even know was it because she fell ill or failed to satisfy a customer that the mistress decided she was no longer worth her feed… and killed her," _he finished with an almost feral snarl.

Back when he first came to her, one of the first orders of business the Seer saw to was to expand his vocabulary beyond the habitual grunts and growls. Now, he found those returning to his speech alongside the thickening accent.

Shi'van nodded and murmured something he didn't quite hear at first. Or at least, he thought he didn't hear it right. _"What did you just say?"_ he asked slowly, a menacing edge in his voice.

"_Lucky (her/whore)…"_ she repeated evenly. He _did_ hear it right!

A red curtain fell down his eyes. In a snap, he was up on his feet. _"Explain,"_ he demanded in a tone of voice that used to instantly send an entire tanar'ri battalion scrambling for cover.

"_She gave birth in a warm bed and she was killed swiftly and neatly,"_ the dancer replied, _"I did it in a ditch. And I'm still alive."_

It was the tone of her voice rather than actual words that first pierced through the thick red curtain of his rage. Something about it gave him pause long enough for the haze to disperse slightly. It was as quiet and hollow as it had been thus far but at the same time, sounded like it came from thousands of miles away.

And then her words finally sank in.

Valen sat down as abruptly as he had stood up. For several long moments, all he could do was stare, and only then did he realize Shi'van was only partially present in 'here' and 'now'. Most of her was drifting someplace, and some_time_, far, far away from the wall ledge of Lith My'athar.

Who knows what he would have said, provided he found any words at all, if she hadn't suddenly snapped out of her trance.

Pulled back into present by a violent tug of a spell activating within her, Shi'van jumped at her feet, grabbed the pillar behind her back for support and breathed sharply.

"_They're here."_

And thus the final battle for Lith My'athar had begun.

* * *

_All right. I promised myself I wouldn't do this, but... Seeing how it took me roughly a year to struggle my way through the previous chapter, I _was_ kinda hoping for some helpful critique or, failing that, I was at least curious to learn if I managed to convey everything I wanted properly. Hundered and fifty hits... /snort/_

_Be that as it may, the next chapter is likely to be another two-parter and seeing how it'll deal with the big battle, it'll take me a while to write it all. No, it won't takeme another year to finish it. Yes, it's gonna be at least two weeks before it's done. In the meantime, I'm leaving you to chew on this one. Feel free to comment..._

_On a side-note, I still **hate** this damned editor thingie! It takes almost as long to do anything in it (and even than it's not letting me do what I want) than it takes to write a chapter._

* * *


	32. Symphony Of Destruction movements 1&2

**A (**_**LONG**_**) NOTE****! But you are to read it. Yes, that means **_**you!**_

Since I obviously have a penchant for titling my chapters after various songs, I thought I might as well try and make at least some of the chapters live up to their given names. In the case of "_The Symphony Of Destruction_", an idea occurred to me that it might be an interesting writing experiment to try and present the chapter in such a manner that it matches the composition of an actual symphony. Thanks to my good friend and neighbor who is a professional musician, I managed to put together the general outline of a symphony as a musical piece and then I made an attempt to write it in words rather than note sheets. (My friend went so far as to express his wish to eventually compose the music to accompany this piece. Should that ever come to pass, you shall be duly informed).

In order to make your reading a bit easier (or possibly, even more confusing…), this is what a symphony looks like:

-First part, the Sonata, serves as sort of an opening, introducing the general theme of the entire piece.  
-The Three-Part Song that follows the opening develops the theme further, adding to it as it goes along. It is generally (but not mandatory) slower than the intro.  
-Minuet, a scherzo (which basically means "a joke") also consists of three parts and it's tempo is (usually) quicker than that of the Three-Part Song.  
-Lastly comes the Rondo, consisting of four themes and the Coda, aka "the grand finale", either in the form of: A, B, A(1), C, A(2) or A, B, C, D, E. Between the (usually epic-sounding) themes come the so-called "bridges", more 'lyrical' in nature, which, as their name suggests, bridge the themes together.

The final theme –the Coda- is sometimes thought of as the separate, fifth part of the composition and is much shorter than previous four themes. The fourth bridge that leads to this particular theme tends to be a bit different than the previous three.

With this in mind, I will let you decide if I managed to follow the composition accurately and to what extent.

Finally, I would take this opportunity to offer a HUGE cake to my editors, Euphorbic and Wolf-Kin. While I write because I'm having fun doing it, these two are stuck with wading through the raw, unedited muck every damn time and I doubt it's too much fun for them at least half of the time. They persevere nonetheless and for that, I simply can't thank them enough. The things they have to put up with… you're better off not knowing, trust me.

**Extra credit** goes to Wolf-Kin this time for being the sweetest thing in the world and making this 'symphony' _really_ work.  
**If you wish to read this (and the following) chapter the way I intended it to be read**, you will have to hear the theme music for it while reading. I rummaged through the MotB soundtrack and some stuff I have on my hard drive and eventually, found what I've been looking for. And Wolf-Kin took the time to actually mix them together and upload them. So, for your reading pleasure, you now have both the chapter _and_ the appropriate music to go with it.

Download it here: (omit spaces)

http / www. sendspace. com/file/mrpwb7 (sonata tracks)  
http / www. sendspace. com/file/roxyvk (three-part song tracks)

_If download links don't show, I'll put them up on the forum, or you can contact me via PM or email to get them. It's damn good music, that, so you should hear it._

Lastly, I can only hope you shall have as much fun reading it as I had writing it. Enjoy!

For your convenience, here's the symphony run-down together with the tracks listed:

**I **Sonata – **Hordes of the Underdark **

exposition (symphony theme) – **dark advance** -- Steve Jablonsky, Desepticons  
development – **engage** -- deathgodcombat  
reprise – **dark advance, reprise** -- Steve Jablonsky, Desepticons

**II** Three-part song – **The Clash of Shadows**

A –"atmosphere" 1 – **when shadows collide **-- shorecombat  
B – "atmosphere" 2 – **behind the shadows** -- mulsantircombat  
A1–"atmosphere" 1 reprise with variation – **when shadows collide, variation** – shorecombat2

**III** Minuet (scherzo) – **In Cauda Venenum **("Poison is in the tail")

**scherzo** -- kurganniscombat**  
trio** (details) -- burninggrove**  
scherzo da capo** -- barrowcombat

**IV **Rondo (repeating theme) –**Faces of Evil (Hymn Of The Lower Planes) **

**The Infernal** -- ashenwoodcombat**  
/bridge 1/** -- spiritarmybattle**  
The Assassin** -- outskirtsbat**  
/bridge 2/** -- sloop**  
The Demon** – (_yet t__o be determined)_**  
/bridge 3/** -- luruecombat**  
The Whore** -- fuguecombat**  
/bridge 4/** -- mulsantirshadowcombat**  
Coda **(grand finale)**: The Fallen Angels** -- The Creatures - Say Yes!

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 20 **

**Symphony Of Destruction**

**(movements one and two)**

"_It was just another day  
It was just another fight  
It was words string into sentences  
It was doomed to not be right"_

_("This Is My Life," Megadeth)_

**I **Sonata - **Hordes of the Underdark**

_**dark advance**_

They were darkness within darkness. Streaming into the large cavern, row upon row of silent shadows aligned in formations, quiet as the depths from which they emerged. Only a startled scream or a stifled yell of an orc or a goblin punctured the thick veil of velvet-black depths, starting high and ending abruptly at a whip's bloodied end. Even the barbazu remained silent, suspended, for a moment, in anticipation of slaughter to come. Higher above, trailing lazy circles, abishai glided on the tricky air currents of the underground. Duergar mercenaries marched forth, their heavy footsteps hushed inside the dweomer of magical silence. And behind them and all around them, hundreds of drow eyes shone menacing crimson, sweet color of blood they had come to shed.

Narrow red slits lined the wall ahead, as silent as those lined out front; just as red, and just as deadly. Behind the eyes, crossbows rose at the ready; behind the crossbows hands were steady and still; behind the hands, hearts pounded a furious beat.

Darkness stirred as shadows slid through, flickers of movement against the ever-lasting black. Eyes couldn't see it, but the minds knew – The battle for Lith My'athar had begun.

_**& & &**_

_**engage**_

The mount moved swiftly across the wall, clawed feet finding footing where only a handful of creatures could. The rider drove his knees into the creature's sides, stirring the giant lizard slightly down and to the left while; both the lizard and it's rider clung to the wall at an almost straight angle to the ground. Tugging at the reins, he forced his mount to slow down and peered ahead. He was the spear-leader, a scout, chosen for the task for his keen reflexes and even keener eyes. Or so he preferred to believe. Deep down, he knew he could just as well be the sacrifice offered to the lightless tunnels ahead; expendable as the next male, his only true value lying in his lighter frame and a good sense of balance.

Dismissing such unsettling thoughts, he dug his heels into his mount's flanks again and spurred the Cold One forward, reassured by the knowledge that even if his own perception failed him, his mount's would not. Not far behind him, he heard another rider's approach. He shouldn't have, but an angry hiss that escaped the second lizard's throat as the beast suddenly lost it's footing was hard not to hear. He heard, for a moment, the mad scrambling, claw against the stone, as the beast behind him desperately tried to find it's footing again. Another sound of slipping and a futile scrape that followed informed him the lizard behind him lost it's hold on the wall completely. He heard the other rider's startled shout as both he and his mount plummeted down, tricked into oblivion by a patch of cleverly applied grease on the wall.

He didn't look back, not for a second. He knew well what fate awaited his less fortunate team mate – a hundred feet of free flight straight down, hitting the protruding rocks with way too many pounds of a frightened lizard on top. He didn't look back; he was merely glad that his own mount sniffed out that patch of grease early enough to avoid stepping on it. He smirked to himself – There _was_ a reason to his being in the lead and it was not mere expendability after all.

His thought was abruptly cut off as he felt a bolt hit through the plating of his armored thigh. He jerked once on instinct, but instantly forced himself flat across the mount's neck, bringing his own crossbow up to bear and already calculating the angle from which the bolt came and the direction in which his own should fly. But even as he brought his hand up, cold sweat broke across his back. With two sudden jerks that indicated two other bolts finding a target of flesh, the mount beneath him grew suddenly limp. Feet slid off the wall. He did not even have time to reach the first strap that secured him to the saddle before he felt the first rock collide with his back.

Up among the stalactites, an Eilistraeean scout smirked and cocked another bolt. Off to the side, her partner crouched sideways on the rocks, his arm stretched above him, fingers dug in a small crevice the only thing keeping him from sharing the same fate as the rapidly descending rider below him. The crouching male grinned at the sight smugly; so secure in their own superiority, it rarely occurred to the Cold One riders that enough sleeping poison could bring even their powerful mounts down. Acknowledging the hand signal from the female in charge of his group, he released his grip on the rock and landed few feet below, quickly finding his footing and skidding even quicker into the next ambush zone. Far from their full force, there were still riders aplenty on the walls to be taken down.

_& & &_

A screech pierced the darkness above, hiss and scream combined in an unnatural sound, coming deep within a scale-plated throat. Another joined in, a pitch higher than the first, and then the third and the fourth as the red leaders worked their troops into a fury. All airborne, all swirling and all eager to shed sweet, mortal blood. Glowing from within with infernal fires, green and black scales flickered among the stalactites, the red-scaled leaders rising up above their lesser kin. Trickles of venom dripped from their tails, mixing with droplets of water and staining the ground far, far below. Another screech erupted from higher up and a flock of greens fell in formation, ready to dive.

_& & &_

"_Wait for it…"_

Words came from the globes in a whisper. Squad leaders relayed the command to the troops. Imloth watched his order travel silently along the wall, quick hand-signals flashing rapidly through the ranks. Abishai circled, taunting, just beyond bolt range. The troops falling in formations out front made an easier target thus far, but were not yet lined up for the first catapult shots to make the most damage possible. Golems stationed at the two largest catapults held the wheels in their steady iron grasp; drow manning two smaller ones gripped the levers tighter, eyeing both the menace in front and above with a nervous twitch.

Tarnash smirked derisively at the command. Crossbow strings stretched as tight as nerves on the walls. Still, it was Eilistraeean group that had sweatier palms up there. Edgy soldiers needed a tug at their reins; Tarnash's Vaherunites didn't need such reminders. After a second's thought though, the wily commander gave them one anyway.

_& & &_

The duergar commander signaled a halt. First contingent swiftly fell away from the main group, never interrupting the steady stride, and brought their shields up. Another group diverged slightly on the other side, twin axes at the ready. Third group winked out of sight, summoning their innate ability to become invisible and quietly moved forth, edging their way closer to the wall, but remaining securely covered by the flowing rows of fodder before them. At the edges of the fodder squads, rods and whips changed hands as most drow fell back, away from the soon-to-be main line of fire and handed over the slave-herding duties to duergar. In the middle, the main bulk of duergar forces halted behind their commander, grim grey faces revealing just a slightest hint of uneasiness. It was not, their commander knew, nervousness at the prospect ahead – They were mercenaries and they were paid to fight and die, and the more of them die, less hands will stretch out when the time to divide the coin comes. But unlike the fools that filled their purses thick with gold, no duergar in his ranks thought of backstabbing a comrade in arms. Instead, they would fight and fight fiercely, even aid one another, knowing that at the end of the day, the best will remain standing. Such was the way of his mercenaries and no one tangled a beard or raised an eyebrow over it. However, the growling, infernal ranks filing up behind them were enough for even the sturdiest duergar to flinch. Throwing a quick glance behind, the duergar leader raised his axe high, signaling to his troops to split up.

A cornugon swatted the nearest barbazu with a claw, forcing the volatile creature back in the ranks. Keeping the barbazu from falling into frenzy was tasking, even for the huge baatezu in command. Swishing his tail once for good measure, he and his co-commanders herded their warriors ahead, cutting through the gap in duergar ranks. Battle glaives glinted ominously in clawed hands, the creatures that wielded them stopping inches shy of slicing closest grey dwarves in half. Soon, they would test the mettle of the big gate ahead and see if it can indeed match up against the ferocity of the Hells' most wild.

_& & &_

"_Wait for it…"_

The command came again as the ranks of barbazu filed up in the front and this time, Tarnash didn't find it in himself to scoff. Up from his side of the wall, he could see them clearly; several already had thick bile running down toothed muzzles, oozy liquid staining their foul whip-like beards.

"_They are about to go __streea__,"_ Ran'ree informed him calmly.

"_And they'll soon go __berserk__ in full,"_ Valen added in sharp, raspy tone, joining the commanders' private line.

"_Then let them break their glaives on the gate," _Osyyr cut in unexpectedly, the youngest commander doing a fine job of keeping his voice even and low. It made Imloth pause – he had never heard Osyyr sound so ominous before.

"_Cut the racket!"_ Illiam whispered sharply and then switched out quickly, turning to her clerics to issue her orders. To her annoyance, she did not switch out quick enough not to hear Ran'ree's quiet chuckle.

Osyyr brought his lips close to his globe and whispered few instructions to the flank leaders. Several drow jumped into the shadows and quickly, climbed the walls on either side of the grand gate. Up ahead, scouts perched in their alcoves moved forth, covering tricky, narrow terrain of the walls swiftly and in silence.

_& & &_

Off to the side and further along the wall lining the big cave fronting the gates, a crossbow clicked once and another shadow went flying down to join the mangled bodies already broken below.

A scout paused in his tracks, his eyes trained on shadowy recess ahead. His leader should have been in it, he knew, yet the appointed signal didn't come. Alert, he shifted balance on the precarious ledge and closed his fingers on the trigger of his hand crossbow. A blade suddenly hissed out of the darkness to his left. He only caught a glimpse of it when it already slashed across his throat. Blood burst from the wound, painting the darkness red and the scout plummeted down, realizing, with his final gurgling breath, that the shadow he had seen go down previously was not that of an enemy.

Silent as the death they dealt, the Red Sisters stalked the walls above the front lines of their army, the line between the hunters and the hunted erased at the edge of hidden blades.

_& & &_

Umraesha'lee's lips curved up in an amused smirk as she watched the duergar ranks split to allow the barbazu to pass. The snakes of her whip were silent at the moment, but her hand closed over the handle anyway. Her other hand rested on her hip, fingers drumming against the mace securely strapped to her side.

The priestesses' eyes lit up in renewed amusement as a purring voice reached her ears, issuing an order she had longed to hear ever since the Red Sister that the Valsharess bedded on occasion returned from her little trip into the deeper caverns some while ago. "_Order them to split up the fodder now._"

She turned around and bowed deeply to her leader. The sinuous figure, still lying lazily atop her driftdisk, waved a hand, the movement sending Faerie Fire of slightest intensity dancing across her figure, highlighting smooth black skin and adamantine spikes of the armor she wore. Umraesha'lee was almost certain it was the permanent Allure spell that was responsible for the spectacle, but to her, it only went in further favor of her leader. The powerful female in front of her left little to chance when it came to displaying her splendor, whether in bed, battle or both.

"_Of course, Valsharess," _she replied and, with a turn that sent her cloak whirling around her body, strode away to relay her leader's command. Their army was almost fully settled now. No doubt those rebels would soon fire first greetings their way. That made the command she had just received all the sweeter…

_& & &_

Lines of fodder stirred. Orcs and goblins shuffled to the sides pushing the bugbears even further down the line as two slave herders came from either side of the fodder ranks, each herding a smaller group of… _special_ slaves through. The slavers pointedly remained several lines behind the front one, hiding their slave groups from the defenders' sight. They met in the middle and merged their two groups together. And then, with a few well-placed whip cracks, the front fodder ranks split up to allow the newest group to step through – to the very front and in line to take the first fire the defenders would launch.

Up on the wall, Imloth wetted his suddenly dry lips and muttered: "_Vith, nau…"_

Lavoera gasped, Imloth's whisper cutting her ears as surely as the sight before her cut through her heart. Ushered to the front, the survivors of the Drearing's Deep, unarmed and with barely any clothes on them, gazed at the darkness with eyes wide in fear. "_No…"_ the deva mumbled, echoing Imloth's words. "_No…_ "

How could they do that? How could she bear it? She thought those people safe! She could even make out individual faces, the gnome she spoke to, the frightened human girl no more than twelve years to her name… The name she never even learned. How could they fire now, into the…

"_FIRE!_"

The command burst forth from the globes with such force and authority it made the items shudder in their wielders' hands. It stabbed straight through the brain, leaving no room for disobedience or even a conscious thought to emerge. The golems released the wheels in unison. Drow tugged the levers and let fly. Two loads of rocks coated with flaming sulfur shot forth, illuminating, for a moment, the outer cavern in hellish light. Four balls made of rags packed with blast-vials followed close behind, the force of their flight so great they exploded mid-air, sending rain of acid onto the fodder below.

BOOOM!

Landing in silent dweomers, the explosion shook the ground beneath the invaders' feet but the sound of it came out muffled and short-lived. The first flaming rock exploded on the ground, obliterating those directly beneath it, killing more with it's violent blast and maiming even more with stray shards and bursts of fire all around. Several duergar that stood too close to the fodder lines jumped back, shaking their arms violently in an attempt to douse the hungry flames that hit them. Several fell down on their knees, stray drops of acid already eating their way beneath their armor and biting through grey skin. In front of them, screams of agony rose above the spell range and flew up, joining the abishai chorus and reaching the ears of the defenders' lines in all their tormented splendor.

"_NO!_" Lavoera shouted even as the catapults released their lethal blasts. Already, the golems pulled the wheels backwards, readying their war machines for another volley by the time the deva's scream died down.

It took the first loads mere seconds to land, but to Imloth, it could have been decades instead. His eyes followed the trajectory of death as it arced over the heads of the fodder, some of which, he, too, thought to have recognized from before. Deva's scream almost knocked the globe out of his bracer and beneath it, he could hear Valen's growl as deeply as only a tanar'ri breed could. On the wall side opposite to him, he saw Tarnash duck as a gigantic missile went flying over his head. And in that moment, Imloth hated his rival more than ever before.

Of course they had to fire. The moment those people got dragged out of their newly-liberated home, their fate was sealed. There was no room for sentimentalities on a battle field. Imloth knew that; every drow knew that, even if they _were_ of Eilistraeean stock. But in the end, it was Tarnash who gave the command to let fly. If he hadn't, Imloth would have done it himself, no matter how big a lump he had to push through his throat to do it. But it wasn't him that did it. It was Tarnash. Tarnash gave the order to fire. Tarnash killed those people in cold blood.

Imloth hated him for it, hated him profoundly. But in giving the order, Tarnash spared Imloth of staining his own hands with their blood, allowed him, if for only a moment, to blame their agonized screams on another. And Imloth hated him for that most of all.

"_Cover the flanks!_" Tarnash barked into the globe. Untroubled with any thoughts beyond his and his troops' survival and not even having time to snort at the delayed reaction of the fools he had been forced to ally with, he issued commands in rapid succession, having just received the word that not all was going smoothly _greased up_ on the side walls. Osyyr followed his lead immediately, sending his archers left and right. Only a careful drow would have noticed the split-second delay Imloth and Valen took before they started coordinating their own squads accordingly.

"_Your leaders waver," _Illiam heard the quiet voice of Ran'ree in her globe but before she could shoot back a testy rejoinder the wizard already started giving out orders of his own, purposefully allowing her to hear it and fully expecting her to coordinate with him on the fly. Should she fail to meet his pace, she'd only look a fool. Biting her lip in anger, Illiam dispatched one priestess each to the flanks, following Ran'ree's example, and silently vowed to Eilistraee that, when this was all done, there would be one less Vhaeraunite polluting the air, whether above or below.

_**& & &**_

_**dark advance, reprise**_

Images swirled in the mirror, emerging with unwavering accuracy at the Seer's commands. Only a sharper intake of breath revealed her feelings as she watched the catapults' shower of death, but one intake of breath was all she allowed herself before switching the image and focusing on the shadows that clung to the walls. Her commanders were capable and their coordination flawless; moment's hesitation on Imloth's part and Tarnash's quick reaction to it only confirmed that fact. Quickly, she sent out the word to individual scout squads all at once, alerting them to the Red Sisters' movements ahead and then switched the view back to the gates again, sending the scrying soaring high above the ground, through the wings of abishai and further up until the entire battlefield was in her sight.

Unlike more common scrying devices, the Mirror offered clairaudience as well as clairvoyance to it's wielder but the Seer hardly needed the additional enchantment right now. The sounds, she knew, were next to non-existent when drow engaged in battle, whether they wielded steel or spells or both; even the sights were blurred, for drow were masters of shades and stealth and when they clashed, it was a clash wrapped in darkness and silence. When drow locked in battle, it was a clash of shadows.

_**& & &**_

**II** Three-part song - **The Clash of Shadows**

_**when shadows collide**_

"_Bait them!_" Valen yelled into the globe making Lavoera's ears ring. The deva complied though and immediately took off. Her wings beating the air, she rose high above the outer courtyard, taking care her flight trajectory appeared natural instead of carefully planned. Half way up, she started glowing slightly and by the time she reached her destination, the light of celestial power enveloped her body fully. She turned sharply in the air, bringing herself in line with the flights of abishai in front of the gates, placing herself right between the second web in front and the already abishai-filled one to her back. Hisses of impotent rage at the sight of an exposed celestial back greeted her the moment she was in place. Dozens of equally outraged eyes glared at her balefully from the front, tails a-twitch and claws clenching in infernal fury.

Her left hand behind her, ready to start a spell, the deva spread her wings wide and extended her other hand, holy mace firmly in her grip. She shouted at the swooping abishai in the tongue of the Upper Planes. Whether any of the creatures actually understood her or not was of little consequence; the language in which she spoke was enough of a taunt in itself.

One of the red leaders hissed angrily as the powerful cornugon below him imparted an order straight into it's head. They were not to attempt to skewer the deva, no matter how taunting she was, on the pain of much more pain. The order was in vein though; even if the red had been up to obeying, the wild-eyed greens and savage blacks most decidedly weren't. With a screech to shatter the heavens, a flight dived into the celestial target, outstretched claws eager to dig deep into the pale, holy flesh.

Bathing in celestial glow, the deva allowed herself one of her rare smirks as she watched the Baatorian beasts lose control at her provocation. Still, it was all she could do not to falter and remain in place as those claws and maws drew rapidly closer to her. Silently, she prayed Ferron and his golems got their timing correct.

Deep down, behind the second wall, the golem leader counted seconds patiently and waited for either the deva, the tiefling or both to confirm the count. A quiet _Now!_ Reached his metallic ears and immediately, two ropes were simultaneously released from the iron hands behind him. The net dropped down, catching the abishai mid-dive. Split-second after, four other pairs of metal hands tugged their own ropes mightily, heaving the suddenly-trapped abishai up even before the beasts could fathom what had just happened to them.

Up above, Lavoera breathed out a sigh of relief and dove beneath the second net, mace leading the way. The archers on both the inner and the outer wall spared a barrage at the first abishai trapped. She shouted her position to Osyyr as she dove down so that he could hold off the second barrage from the outer wall until she was safely out of arrows and bolts' path. A claw lashed out at her from the side and she swatted it away without even a glance in that direction. She attempted to dodge a lashing tail deeper down but failed just so and took a painful poison-prick for the mistake. Swiftly, she spun mid-air, adding the momentum to the swing of her mace and dug the holy weapon deeply into the startled red's skull, sending the creature flying away and into the wall. Not _all_ abishai got caught in the trap, but those that managed to avoid it would be easy picking for her.

"_Send a few this way,"_ Valen suggested with a snort. He tried to sound good-humored but the deva picked out the growling undertones nonetheless and wondered, not for the first time, if the tiefling was indeed capable of pulling through this with his mind (and morals) still intact. Tanar'ri blood burned fiercely in his veins. He had already smelled the foul odor of baatezu blood. Now he ached to spill some of it himself.

_& & &_

The ground shuddered violently beneath the main gate, but both the wall and the adamantine imbedded in it held fast. A volley of magic shot forth from the wall, intertwined with the ever-coming archers' deadly showers. Together, they stabbed far into the invading ranks, possibly hitting at least one of the wizards who had just attempted to place another Earthquake spell beneath the defenders' feet. But regardless of how shameful their last two matrons were, the Maeviirs of the past were no fools and had long ago secured their gates against such intrusions. Still, the invading casters _would_ attempt it again and again until they were either out of spells or the double-gate succumbed to their efforts.

Ran'ree knew that in theory, it was possible to do so. Enough spellpower combined and with enough time and patience, the dweomers protecting the gates _could_ eventually wear off or at least, weaken enough to allow for more mundane means of attack to have an effect. And the invading army had both the spell-wielding capacity and enough time on their hands to give it a try. If they were to prevent the enemy from testing out his theory in practice, the defenders would have to relieve the attackers of their casters. Bringing up the rotation schedule, he quickly calculated how many more spells his group had at their disposal and decided their next course of action. "_Remove all but four from the walls and have two Renewal spells ready,_" he whispered into the globe, knowing full well how that insufferable Illiam reacted to his direct orders. As he heard her scoff a testy reply, he couldn't deny he enjoyed his newly-appointed rank greatly.

_& & &_

Inside the city walls, silent and alert, Nathyrra and her group scouted the borders. While they did have the hidden routes covered and secured with both traps and glyphs, the possibility of a breach, no matter how small, could not be neglected. Her globe flickered once, but no sound came from it even though she knew a message from Min-Mur'ss should have came through. Nathyrra gritted her teeth in anger – one of her more capable squad leaders apparently met her end at the wall. She knew the Seer was keeping her and her most elite ones in the background for now so she could unleash them when the Sisters made their attack in full, but the reasoning, no matter how sound it was, did little to soothe the distressed assassin's nerves. How she wished to be at the walls right now!

But she wasn't there and wasn't to be there for a while yet. Swallowing her anger the best she could, she tuned the globe to Ran'ree and Ossyr, informing both that the Sisters were advancing and that the grease on the walls, both normal and magical, needed renewing soon.

_& & &_

A drow skidded down the wall, clutching his arm. Swiftly, ignoring the pain, he made a line for the stacks of healing supplies and, seeing no Eilistraeean clerics around to offer aid at the moment, helped himself to a small flask form the top. Unseen by the warriors rushing past him, he reached into the folds of his cloak with his wounded hand, stifled a groan of pain and quickly, buried a small flask beneath the pile. If found, no one would think twice about it, merely assuming the small explosive was simply overlooked and misplaced, but Nadlyn knew better. And so did his leader.

Gulping the healing brew down, he allowed himself a brief sigh of relief as pain begun to subside and started on his way up, back to his post. Another drow brushed past him and he gave him a barely noticeable nod. The second drow, never stopping his stride, continued on his own way which eventually led him close enough to his leader to confirm that another explosive found it's intended destination.

Tarnash smirked grimly to himself. The battle was engaged for more than an hour now and roughly one-third of the intended number of small vials was buried under the supplies lining the outer wall. With a command word from either him or Ran'ree, a trigger word that would work from as far away as the other side of the city, all the flasks would explode at once, destroying the supplies and anyone close enough to them at that time. It was a precaution he and Gulthrys had been discussing even before they knew the baatezu would join in the fight. Baatezu or not, sooner or later, they would all have to retreat from Lith My'athar and that would mean abandoning the city _and_ the supplies to the enemy. The flight through the treacherous Underdark would prove to be difficult enough; Tarnash had no intentions of making the life of his pursuers even easier by leaving anything potentially useful behind. And should the situation so demand, he could always detonate a few of those things while Eilistraeeans were still around, both to insure they, too, wouldn't get any silly ideas once he turns his back to them.

_& & &_

Up on the inner wall, a small winged figure perched unobtrusively in a corner. In one hand, it held a communication globe, the colors within it swirling every so often as the kobold constantly kept aligning other globes and keeping the tunes flowing smoothly through them. Clutched in his other hand, a pen was working furiously across several sheets of paper and, in one instance, a discarder flour bag as well.

"_And thens the mighty drow fired ahead, swatting other mighty drow with… ehrm… grand /_scribble/…_ uhmmm… mighty _/no.. we already haves one mighty... Ah-Ha!/_…__**almighty**__ blast of doom! …like the old boss once does when he gots all tangled up and his belly acheses from too much pie… or like when boss… Boss!"_

"_...ermmm… Boss? Where you be, boss Deekin wonders? Deekin can'ts write epic tale of boss if Deekin not knows where boss be…_"

_& & &_

A shadow slid along the left cavern wall in silence, no differently then so many around her. This one, however, did not slid _through_ the shadows but rather, slipped straight _into_ them. One hand holding an acid-dripping stiletto, the other ran slowly across the smooth stone surface, looking for even the slightest scratch to dig it's fingers in and propel the dancer even deeper into the gloom.

Off to her side, another shadow stirred slightly. Without thinking, Shi'van whirled around, driving her blade in the one moment and retrieving it swiftly the next. Just like the snakes long gone that used to drive their fangs into her own flesh, leaving the gifts of poison in their wake. Glancing up, she released her hold on the rock and went down, into the waiting embrace of a deeper shadow beneath. By the time a longer blade stabbed through it, the dancer was already gone, her brisk shadow-step taking her instantly from the shadow she had landed in into the one above her target's head. Grasping at the ledge, she slid the stiletto back into it's sheath in her bracer and in the same movement, snapped Oloth from it's scabbard.

Having a longer reach now, her hand shot forth again, hitting the back of the drow below her. The drow remained puzzled at the sudden absence of the target a split-second too long. The blade hit her -or his- back, Shi'van wasn't sure of her opponent's gender. Not giving the drow time to reorient, the dancer offered another swift bite of Darkness to her opponent and pulled herself up just in time to avoid a blade quickly flying her way. Shi'van brought her leg down and, before the drow had time to react, kicked the flat of the blade with her foot. It wasn't an overly hard kick, but placed at the very tip of the blade. The tip of the blade shot down while it's hilt shot up in its wielder's grasp; the drow beneath the dancer lost balance for a breath as she –or he- tried to keep the weapon from abandoning the hand that held it. A breath was all the time Shi'van needed to strike again and make her opponent draw his/her last. She moved away again even as the body started to fall. She hadn't even bothered to check if the body was that of an ally or an enemy.

Her mind was a haze, not from the drink she had imbibed earlier but from all the memories unleashed from within. She _had_ been here before. Only now, she would be able to make a difference. _Whatever that might accomplish…_

The malevolent tug of a spell in her chest reminded her of at least one reason to keep trying. She crouched on the small outcropping, closing her eyes and steadying her breathing, trying, somehow, to _tell_ the spell that she _was_ on her way to fulfill what was demanded of her. She could not reach Sinvyl yet, but sooner or later, Sinvyl would reach _her_. If not sooner, then once this trice-damned city finally yielded to the assault. The spell seemed to comply with her reasoning. She mused idly if it was due to the nature of Halaster's Geas itself or did a certain psionic perhaps leave a little something in his wake that unwittingly aided her now. She didn't know, and it hardly mattered anyway.

However she turned it, she would have to remain inside, even while all the others started their retreat. The Geas would not allow her to leave now that Sinvyl was so close. At least, it would not allow her to leave alive. If she stayed though, her chances of survival were roughly equivalent to those of a paper cat on Baator. Either way, she would most likely end up dead. Shi'van wondered if she even cared…

_**& & &**_

_**the shadows behind**_

The driftdisk floated in the air, suspended on wisps of magic. The figure on it reclined lazily, extended finger of one hand trailing idly across the edge of the animated object. In her other hand, she twirled a palm-dagger that once belonged to another. Beside her, the huge baatezu leaned his back comfortably against the rock and cast her an amused glance. She turned to him and smiled that childish smile she always wore when amused. Bethurru couldn't remember when was the last time he saw her _not_ wearing that facade.

"_You are slobbering,_" she teased, lifting herself up on her elbow and twisting her upper body, arm extended and reaching for the pit fiend's fang that dripped vile green liquid down on his chin. Bethurru grinned widely. She made the move as if to scoop the fluid with her finger but stopped short of actually doing it, doubtful that a mortal could touch it and still keep that smooth ebony skin intact.

"_And, you are excited,_" she purred softly, her eyes traveling up and down his form, her face illuminated by flickering flames that licked the huge baatezu's body.

"_Aren't you?" _ Bethurru voiced his thoughts. It was a rare occasion that he did so; usually, his kind restricted itself to mental communication alone.

"_We shall see if I grow more amused soon,_" she laughed, bringing herself up abruptly to a sitting position and snapping her fingers once. A wizard approached her and bowed deeply. For all the time he spent with his mistress and her fiendish ally, he still remained undecided as to which one frightened him more.

"_Report!_" the priestess demanded.

Offering another bow, the wizard immediately begun a spell that would enable him to speak remotely to the Red Sister not present inside the grand cavern.

_The Valsharess ordered a report,_ he sent out his thought the moment he felt the link form between him and Faer'tyrr.

_We are half way through. We shall need another few hours to reach our destination._

Cutting the link, the wizard immediately relayed the report, word-for-word and hoped for the best. Luckily for him, his mistress was more interested in the conversation with her fiendish commander than in finding something in the report that was not to her liking, be it the wording, the accent or merely the fact that she heard a male voice when she wanted none of it.

Dismissing the wizard with a wave of her hand, she turned to Bethurru once again, her lips curved and her eyes reflecting his flames.

"_You could have had her report to you directly,_" Bethurru chuckled, "_Or I could have told you of their progress myself._"

"_Ah, but this is so much sweeter._" She licked her full lips slowly and cast a backwards glance the wizard's way, like a sated hellcat eyeing a fluttering imp. "_Tell me, _" she treated the fiend to one of her finest pleading-child looks he had seen yet, "_Will you do that little thing for me, mighty Bethurru? You said you would… _" she crossed her arms across her chest and gave him a pout.

Bethurru could not stand the spectacle any longer without laughing out loud. When he was first chosen by his peer to be the one to accompany this mortal bodily, he thought the task boring at best (though he was wise not to voice his opinions, silently or loudly, to anyone), but soon enough, he found that, even though just a mere mortal, this drow female actually amused him. And if he would not do as she asked of him for that reason alone, this performance was, he decided, worthy of it all by itself.

"_But you do remember __our__ agreement, too, don't you?_" he teased the mortal back.

"_Of course…_" she smiled and then turned away from him as one of her priestesses-in-command came to give her another report on the battlefield progress. Bethurru leaned back again and listened to it with only half of his attention. His mind was already on _his_ promised prize for the day. A soft, juicy celestial, just waiting to fall in his crushing grasp. So young, so fragile, so… innocent. He would enjoy their meeting greatly. If he had any saying in it, the celestial would not share his sentiments on it.

_& & &_

Moving briskly, Umraesha'lee strode past the soldiers and casters who still hadn't joined the fray in front of the gates, her eyes trained up ahead. Spotting a cornugon up ahead was not a difficult task; spotting a gelugon even less so. If all else failed, one only needed to track the line of ice and move towards the cold. Normally, their pit fiend general would order them around himself and likely, do so without even speaking the word. Umraesha'lee presumed she was to command the creatures for the benefit of their other, mortal troops. It would both make relaying further orders easier _and_ provide the rank-and-file drow another display of their leaders' might and control.

Casting a simple spell along the way, privately grateful that at least the lesser spells were still available to her, even if those provided directly by the Queen who'd fallen silent weren't, she strode up tot eh creature and, aided by magic, addressed it in it's own, guttural tongue.

The huge insectoid baatezu regarded her with a tilt of it's head, cold emanating from it's body making Umraesha'lee's skin curl up in discomfort. She finished talking and watched the monster nod once before spinning about and walking away. On either side of their ranks, she noticed the other five following suit and soon enough, the vicious shouts form up ahead told the priestess the cornugon finally allowed the barbazu to go berserk. She smirked to herself and headed back to the commanders' camp.

_& & &_

The barbazu roared their unintelligible war cry, their call to battle piercing the ears of those who were near them but not reaching far beyond globes of darkness and magical silence they still had cast about them as they poured forth. The duergar advancing at the gate wisely aligned their ranks even further to the flanks, allowing the frenzied monstrosities free reign of the middle. Behind the furious glaive-wielders, the cornugon advanced, no less eager than their lesser brethren to finally see just how impenetrable the gates of the city really are. Bodies of those already down crunched under their feet. There were very few drow and only an handful of duergar to tread on, but there were fodder races aplenty for the powerful feet to pound into the ground.

One of the cornugon stopped in it's tracks, regarding the still twitching form of a random bugbear at it's feet. Kicking the creature up, the baatezu caught the mangled body in it's grasp and, without an effort, ripped the thing in two, spraying blood and guts left and right. Another one picked up a body in stride and as it closed in on the gates, and launched it's gruesome load straight at the wall. The body hit the gate with a sickly thus of broken bones and slid down slowly, trailing internal organs behind it. It only served to set off the barbazu off even more. It also provided amusement to the rest of the cornugon and soon enough, every one of the large baatezu scooped up bodies as they went along, launching their fleshy missiles at, or even over, the wall ahead.

Up above their heads, the still numerous abishai readied themselves for another flight. The nets, they knew, could not hamper them for much longer. There were only two at work and even those begun to tear at the edges where their less-fortunate kin still struggled and screeched under the barrage of acidic bolts and spells from below. Reds aligned greens and blacks mid-flight, eyes burning red with desire to tear mortal flesh. They needed no taunts from the deva any more; they would fly, again and again and eventually, they _would_ break through.

Down below, a volley of spells hit the rolling baatezu mass. It barely slowed them down, those in front pushed mercilessly forward by claws and glaives of those rushing behind. On either side of the wall, machines creaked as the catapults launched yet another devastating load the invaders' way. This time, the baatezu did take notice. Two rocks slammed into the ground, the craters left in their wake joining numerous ones already there. Even rocks melted where they fell, sending bits and pieces of infernal army flying about and causing cracks along the stone ground to travel even deeper and further than before.

A cornugon roared as acid bit it's skin and flailed around in outrage. It's wild-flying whip caught several barbazu in it's coils, sending the creatures flying even if they had no wings. On the other side, where the second rock landed and another acidic shower poured, another cornugon took to the air, aiming to join the abishai that circled above the missile range. The effort only yielded the creature perforated wings and soon enough, it found itself plummeting down and onto the glaives of those barbazu not quick enough to get out of the way.

It seemed like chaos, unless one bothered to take a closer look and notice that, for all the commotion, both baatezu and mortal ranks still advanced steadily and in relative order towards their intended target. Occasional losses were only to be expected and nothing the more disciplined commanders couldn't - and didn't - handle as they went, marching over the dead and the dying and keeping their major ranks in line. For all the damage they had done so far, the defenders of the city would have a _long_ way to go if they truly meant to keep the invaders at bay for any truly significant amount of time. The invading army could rotate their troops and press the attack, wearing the thinly-stretched ranks of the defenders down. Those inside had to eat and sleep and tend to their wounded but the attackers planned to give them little to no time in which to do so. Attacking relentlessly, superior in both strength and numbers, the army of the Valsharess pressed on. The fact that this was but a detachment of the larger army that even now marched towards Skullport brought little comfort to those behind the blood-stained walls.

_**& & &**_

_**when shadows collide - variation**_

A drow cried out in pain as a cornugon-hurled Lightning Bolt struck him in the chest and sent him reeling back from the wall. Another one caught him, not worrying for the moment if it was the Seer's or Tarnash's soldier that got wounded badly enough to cry out so. Wordlessly, the archer eased his wounded co-fighter down with one hand while firing a missile with the other. A cleric rushed up, grabbing the fallen archer by his arms and dragged him few steps down and onto a side-walkway where the already wounded were piled up, awaiting to be taken down to the ground floor for ministrations of Eilistraeean priesthood.

Down below, Illiam frowned at the gaping wound before her, aware of the gazes other clerics were casting her way. She couldn't, no matter how hard she tried, bring herself to feel any pity for those of Tarnash's stock that lay before her. She would heal them, yes, but too many battles around the Promenade left Illiam permanently jaded whenever she came contact with any drow not of her own faith. Those who knew the priestess well could not rightfully blame her for it.

Still she clenched her teeth and set about her task, scolding herself for her lack of sympathy. She also reminded herself as she reached for another bandage that not everyone in the ex-Maeviir ranks worshiped the dark stalker yet. Many still remained undecided, torn between life-long service to the Spider Bitch and the new unknown in the form of The Masked God. Perhaps, through all this blood and confusion, some of them, at least, could be show the third, better way. If her priestesses acted as they should, their actions will speak louder than words to those who might yet be swayed into the Dark Maiden's ranks.

The struggles for followers and greater dominance among the drow pantheon is among the fiercest ones known to the Planes. Their clergy knows that well. Even in the most turbulent times, no, _especially_ during the most turbulent times, they never let an opportunity to gain new converts pass them by.

_& & &_

Ferron gave a signal and once again, the first net came up, dislodging it's cargo of dead and dying abishai along the way. Bodies flew down with a handful still trying to bat their wings in vain. Those that reached the ground still alive were swiftly dispatched by the troops stationed below.

Another wave of flyers made their attempt at flying over the walls. Another flight wing got caught in the pockets of the big net. Confident in the Seer and the constant guidance she provided her troops with from the moment the battle begun, Ferron still wondered what became of those few baatezu in every flight that somehow managed to avoid both the nets, the holy spells and the deva swooping through their scattering ranks.

_& & &_

Imloth ducked as a torso of… probably an orc once flew above his head and landed with a sickly splash beside him. Wincing in disgust, he rubbed the shoulder where a disembodied arm that detached itself during flight hit him, almost making him lose his balance. Not many corpses reached the walls, but those that did were quickly dispatched, lest the bodily fluids and sprawled intestines impair the movements of archers currently holding the wall line.

"_Let fly,"_ he ordered to his troops alone, giving Tarnash's two catapulteers time in which to reload. A score of Osyyr's warriors about to rotate picked up the orcish remains and tossed them over, another group already half way down and carrying the wounded beneath them. The young lieutenant himself had yet to take a break and stop for even a breather; Eilistraee forbid he actually drags his ass off the wall and rotate with his second-in-command while both Imloth and Valen still stood their ground. Imloth chuckled, admiring the younger drow's stubborn persistence and turned his attention back to the ever-advancing ranks over the wall.

In the background, the Seer's quiet voice kept all of them regularly informed of the enemy's movements. Sometimes, she ordered a change of tactics when her broader overview afforded her insights the field commanders lacked, but generally she kept to broadcasting everyone's positions and offering advice only when needed. Imloth had yet to decide if he should applaud louder to his leader or the kobold he knew still sat on top of the inner wall, likely leaving a testimony of this battle in a form that was sure to keep grand tacticians of the Realms as confused as an elf in a bugbear wrestling pit. The Seer kept giving them the overview of the field, but it was only because of the kobold and his "Tuning Fork" they all managed to communicate with one another without their voices and commands interfering and ending up in a complete cacophony hours ago.

"_Is Sinvyl still out there or is she advancing as well?"_ Valen asked with a grunt. Probably man-, that is _tiefling_-handling someone into position Imloth guessed. The tiefling was obviously losing patience for issuing commands verbally.

"_She remains in the background still,_" came the Seer's reply, "_She only moved her camp slightly to the right half an hour ago._"

Valen's next words came out slightly strained "_And where is…_"

"_Haunting the walls on the right now, but not going further than our border,_" the Seer replied before the tiefling even finished his question. Imloth correctly guessed that this exchange revolved around a certain shadowdancing half-drow who, one way or the other, still had a pivotal role to play in this encounter. He was musing whether Valen's obvious lack of sleep may have had a thing or three to do with the tiefling taking him up on the advice he gave him back in Drearing's Deep when he heard Tarnash give order to his two catapults to fire.

"_Take turns?_" the Vhearaunite grumbled through the globe.

"_Two yours, two mine, golems cut in whenever,_" Imloth agreed after a moment's consideration.

"_Wait for the signal,_" Ran'ree reminded both of them and the golem as well, "_Their wizards will try a counter spell again; you don't want a small storm sending your loads back at you._"

Imloth nodded, not bothering to reply this time. While Gulthrys was unparalleled evoker of Maeviir ranks and his ample spell power was certainly missed on the battlefield today, Ran'ree proved to be a capable tactician, coordinating his casters in a steady, calculated way Imloth suspected the more volatile Gulthrys probably could not have done if he were here instead of the older wizard.

On his side of the wall, Tarnash was coming to the same conclusion but with one irregular value added to the equation. He missed Gulthrys dammit! Sorely so. He would rather throw himself among the baatezu than admit it, but there it was – nothing like a grumpy wizard to pester to ease the pressure on your own nerves. The one hanging on his belt was a poor substitute and had, in fact, annoyed Tarnash more than he could annoy him... _IT!_ he corrected himself sharply and stalked off, shutting out the annoying voice in his head before it really drove him to a long drop and a bloody stop.

_& & &_

The warrior felt a blade slice across her back and whirled around to face her assailant. Another drow smirked at her tauntingly, swinging his blade in a wide arc before bringing it up for a parry. The female snarled and attacked. She didn't know her assailant's face personally, which could only mean he was one of Tarnash's. She scoffed before launching her attack trying hard not to think about the burning pain in her back. It was only a matter of time before that treacherous lot turned against them.

Up on the wall, an archer suddenly found himself under the attack from two drow who flanked him right up until now. A gurgle further down the wall line indicated he was not the only one to suddenly find himself in predicament.

Another fighter down in the courtyard turned around just in time to catch a treacherous bolt fully in the gut. Firing a missile her attacker's way, she scrambled for cover. When no pursuit came, she dared peak above the crates but couldn't see her attacker any more. Hand clasped on the wound, she looked around wearily until she spotted Valen and painfully slowly, begun shambling towards the tiefling. What she had to report before she collapsed at his feet didn't make the already edgy tiefling much happier.

Imloth ran across the wall ducking low and reached for his blades. Dammit! He didn't expect Tarnash to be _that_ big a fool to start backstabbing this early on. He noted two warriors locked in combat in front of him but dodged to the side, came up from the roll and kept running without breaking the momentum. In the distance, he could see Tarnash whispering something into his globe and Imloth's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. If they started fighting each other now, than all would be lost. Millions of scenarios played out in his head, each one worse and more chaotic than the one before, but it hardly mattered to Imloth as he kept running, having eyes for his rival only. Tarnash had turned on them and now he was going to pay. And Imloth was only too eager to collect.

The furious weapon master charged across the wall. Right in front of him, a ball of concentrated vitriol slammed into an archer's chest. The drow went flying over the wall's edge. Tarnash turned, both his blades up in an instant. He quickly took in the sight of charging Imloth in front of him, a drow plummeting for the courtyard on one side and on the other side, Ran'ree preparing another spell.

"_No!_" Ran'ree snapped split-second before two Weapon Masters engaged in a deadly combat. Neither of them backed down. Sighing, Ran'ree quickly brought his hands up and sent a Sonic Boom exploding between the two fools. This time, they did pause. For a second only, but long enough for Ran'ree to get their attention.

"_Look!_" he pointed at the still-falling form. Exchanging glances of pure hatred, both Weapon Masters took a quick glance to a side… only to see the flailing form transforming mid-air; wings sprouted from it's back and it's body convulsed as the creature instinctively attempted to change it's shape into one that could go airborne and avoid the painful greeting ground rose up to offer. It was fast, but not fast enough. The creature hit the ground before it's transformation was complete. Still, the transformation went on it's course just long enough to reveal the truth of the monster to the three pairs of eyes trained on it's descent. What went over the wall a drow, landed on the stone a half-transformed abishai.

"_Vith!_" was all Tarnash cared to offer before all three of them broke off in different directions, shouting orders into their globes.

"_Valen! Abishai! Polymorphed!_" Valen heard Imloth's voice through the globe. Snatching his flail up, the tiefling whirled around, his eyes burning madly. For a moment there, all thoughts of tactics and leadership dispersed from his brain leaving in their wake only one blazing fact. There were baatezu around and Devil Bane rested as neatly in his grasp as it had ever had.

_& & &_

"_Mark them!_" came Illiam's command. Instantly, both clerics and wizards begun a frenetic chant. Up above them, a deva begun glowing her inner light and begun a chant of her own. Detecting Evil in this place would likely knock her out for the rest of the day, but she _could_ detect planars instead. Given how they only had two of those on their side, everyone else she would pick out and mark would be the enemy. The casters below her obviously had the same idea for soon enough, Lavoera felt the tingle of a non-offensive spell hugging her body even as she launched that very same spell the other planars' way.

Down in the courtyard, Valen roared orders not even bothering to go through the globes half of the time. If there was one thing to be said about the drow it was that they were quick on the uptake – those closest to him heard him well enough; those further away would catch on. And if they didn't – their loss.

"_We need backup!_" Ferron informed him, his earlier question on the whereabouts of the leftover abishai finally answered. They hadn't attacked straight away but waited, polymorphed, until enough of them were inside the courtyard to attack.

Pausing a breath, the tiefling veteran dispatched a nearest group to golems' aid and then turned around, looking for the tell-tale magical glow which would tell him his friends from his foes. Or… would that even be necessary? The tide of the Blood Wars rose high up his chest, flooding his brain. Devil Bane glowed brightly in his hands. He inhaled deeply. No, he wouldn't need any magic to aid him in his fight – the smell, the _feel_ of baatezu was too well known to him. He didn't need any spell to guide him – he could sense his enemies by their infernal stench alone. Grinning like a madman, the tiefling opened his eyes, threw his head back and howled a battle roar that was bound to shatter at least few eardrums caught in it's path and threw himself at the enemy.

_& & &_

Both Weapon Masters coordinated the archers now, leaving Osyyr, who knew the nooks and cranes and the soldiers of the wall best to deal with the abishai disruption with Illiam providing the backup. The Seer focused the Mirror view onto the outer courtyard, scanning for those abishai that still remained undiscovered by the defenders.

The marksman sergeant raced across the steps, skipping two or three in one go as he ran up and down, barking orders and occasionally, joining the combat himself if the odds proved to be too much for his small skirmish squads to bear. He skidded to a stop as he spotted just one such group, brought up his crossbow and swiftly fired a shot straight into the melee. He was confident enough in his marksmanship to risk such a thing without worrying about hitting his own. He fired off two more shots in quick succession and then backed against the wall to reload, his eyes never leaving the combat before him. Before he could cock the crossbow properly though, three attackers finished off one of the skirmishers in unison and turned their attention to the spot from which the sting of a bolt took one of their flight-leaders down. Osyyr cursed under his breath and dropped his crossbow. He darted away from the wall and onto the walkway, not wanting to get stuck with no maneuvering space and unsheathed his blade.

One abishai kept to it's drow guise, but the other two polymorphed back as they approached, preferring to rend and tear with their claws. By the time they reached Osyyr, the remaining one also dropped it's guise, revealing itself to be another red – smaller than the two blacks in front of it but that much more dangerous. It's tail swished left and right, trailing drops of poison in its wake. With the skirmishers still engaged in their own fight, Osyyr knew no aid would come his way. He cursed his rotten luck as the infernal trio lunged for his throat.

_Now, what did Valen say about these things… _He skidded to a side, dangerously close to the walkway's edge as both blacks lashed out with their prehensile tails. _Ah yes, mind the tails. Right…_ He ducked under the frenzied claw of one black and sent his sword flying into the other's belly. _Oh, and they're thick-scaled, too_ he remembered as his blade barely nicked the creature. _And quick!_ He was reminded a second later as the two forced him to scramble higher up while attacking with their claws with blinding speed.

He ducked and dodged across the walkway, focusing primarily on not getting hit and launching an attack of his won only when he was certain not to miss. Several gashes across his torso reminded him that his skill with a crossbow far outperformed his skill with a blade. He was a skilled warrior, true, but obviously, so were these three baatezu that kept him on his toes and scoring a hit more often than Osyyr cared to admit. He caught a glimpse of his skirmishers' bodies slumping down and knew no help would come from that direction. He only hoped he could keep this up long enough to reach the upper staircase where more warriors were stationed.

"_ARGH!_" A strangled cry escaped his lips as a claw dug deeply between his ribs from an unexpected direction. Thus far, the walkway he was on was close enough to a stalagmite mound to prevent the beasts from taking to the air and attacking him from the side. The more nimble red one apparently found just enough space to bat it's wings. Osyyr fell on one knee, trying to block an incoming claw above his head, only to feel the venomous stinger of a black's tail protrude his calf. He cried out again as the thick venom sprayed into the wound, making his leg go instantly numb. Blood gushed out of the wound as another claw caught him across the face, ripping skin and flesh and slashing his nose in two. _Damn you, Valen, you never said they were __that__ quick…_

_& & &_

The enchantment of the globes was such that, should their wielder fall, the globe would "die" with it, leaving nothing for the enemies to pick up later on. Up on the wall, a tight ball of pain rose up Imloth's throat as he watched the light signifying Osyyr's command line wink out. Osyyr was not the first one to fall that day, but it was the death that stung Imloth most keenly yet.

Osyyr was still alive as his intestines spilled out of his belly and splattered onto the stairway, chunks of muscle ripped off his bones, arms pulled out of their sockets and face torn to shreds. By the time the abishai were through tearing him apart alive, not one recognizable piece of the former marksman sergeant remained behind.

* * *

_Tracks for the second part are currently being mixed. Second part of the Symphony is currently in the edits. Neither will be finished in less then five or so days. Be patient. Or bribe me with a review. Whatever.  
Also, review replies for the previous chapter(s) are on the forum. That's where I'll reply to reviews for Symphony, so check there._


	33. Symphony Of Destruction movements 3&4

**Notes:**

**1.** Soundtrack for the chapter can be found here: (omit spaces) http: / www. sendspace. com/file/ 46ohkh "The Demon" track: Fight Fire With Fire by Apocalyptica. Sendshare only keeps files up for a week. Permanent link for the tracks download will be posted on my forum in "Symphony" section as soon as I find a place to upload them. Check back for the link as well as review replies. Provided I have anything to reply to, that is...

**2. **This is the longest chapter I've ever wrote. Grab a drink, folks. Something alcoholic for preference - I am honestly expecting (well, hoping anyway) that you'll need it by the time you're finished reading this one. 'Nuff said. /smirk/

**3.** Last but not the least, the place of honor in this chapter goes to Euphorbic who was kind enough to write a gift-scene for it. It's the shadowdance scene at the beginning of "The Whore". You can't miss it - it's that part that's actually well-written. /laugh/ Thanks, Euphorbic, you know how much I love what you wrote there.

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 20 **

**Symphony Of Destruction**

**(movements three and four)**

"_Just by looking through your eyes  
She could see the future penetrating right  
In through your mind  
See the truth and see your lies  
But for all her power couldn't foresee her own demise"_

_("The Clairvoyant," Iron Maiden)_

**III** Minuet - **In Cauda Venenum**

_**scherzo**_

The party moved through the narrow tunnels in complete silence, careful feet deftly avoiding the more treacherous parts of the path. There were two dozen or so of them, navigating the dangerous track like so many vipers trailing through the dark. Scouting some distance ahead of them, their leader touched the medallion on her chest and summoned up the magic of her house insignia to contact another patrol that traversed an equally hazardous tunnel running parallel to this one. No words were spoken, but in the lightless silence, the leader felt her insignia grow warmer and she smiled a smile of satisfaction. The other patrols were advancing as nicely as her own had. Soon enough, they would reach their destination. And then…

_& & &_

Another patrol leader laid her hand on the insignia, the smile on her face a match to the one several tunnels away. The fortified city was difficult to breach. For ages uncounted, magical dweomers protected it, not only from earthquakes or violent magics but also from teleport and scrying. The only way leading in was the huge double-gate. Or so the inhabitants of the city thought.

But there _were_ other ways in, if one only knew where to look for them. The long line of Maeviir matrons guarded the secrets of their ancestral stronghold jealously, only their own female offspring and their most trusted advisors privy to the information that could spell either salvation or doom. Matron Zesyyr, the last of the noble Maeviir line took that knowledge to the grave with her, but she wasn't the only one in her House who had the precious information on the secret entrances.

Unbeknownst to either the hopeful defenders or the late Matron Zesyyr herself, the previous matron, Matron Muryne, confided into one high-ranking assassin-priestess. There were routes that only Matron Myrune knew about that even her daughter –and thus the defenders as well- didn't know existed. And how convenient, the patrol leader laughed privately, that it was Cahlind who came to them all those months ago to offer the knowledge and pledge the loyalty of the House she represented to Valsharesses cause.

_& & &_

Another Red Sister shared those very sentiments as she pressed on with her group. She signaled for a lesser male to take the lead as her group approached yet another section she suspected was filled with glyphs and traps. It was not only the customary distrust every drow held when it came to dealing with their own kind – certain routes may have stayed unknown for quite some time, but that still didn't mean those weren't protected as well. Another group had reported sighting a contingent of ex-slaves earlier on, thus alerting other groups to potentially trapped and/or crowded tunnels they had yet to circumvent. ancient glyphs of protection were no less potent now than they had been the day they were placed. And once past those obstacles, the scouts still had old portals and trigger words of opening to deal with.

Yes, the Red Sisters and their parties still had some ways to go before they reach their destination, but it wouldn't be much longer now. The leader stalked ahead, catching up with the male she sent ahead and joining him on the steep ledge that ended abruptly with a smooth stone wall. Bringing her insignia up once again, the Sister muttered a few words under her breath and no sooner than she did, lightest glow of an ancient spell streaked in bluish lines across the wall in front of her. The male beside her grinned slyly and she returned the grin in earnest and whispered softly:

"_We are here_…"

**_& & &_**

_**trio**_

A scout lifted his head, uncertain of the sound his ears just picked up. Darting into the shadows, he brought up a pendant in which his communication globe rested and whispered few syllables into it. They weren't intelligible, but they didn't have to be; the codes devised by Nathyrra were short and practical and she made sure all of her scouts knew them months ago.

No response came his way, but the scout knew his message got through. He remained in his hiding place, waiting patiently for other scouts to converge in the area. While usually working their silent trade alone or in pairs at the most, there was still strength in numbers from time to time. The scout had no intention of risking his head all on his own. He did, however, glance towards the walls occasionally and, after a moment or two, brought his globe to his lips again. This time, he spoke actual words into it though he tried to keep them short and to the point. With Rizolvir's Forge so close –he could make out the outline of the structure up ahead, bathing in the soft firelight refracting from the river- the craftsman and their main supplier should be informed of a potential danger as well.

_& & &_

Nathyrra cursed softly under her breath and brought her globe-holding bracer up. _Mother Seer, we may have visitors near the river bank._ Having sent her message, the assassin took to the roofs and quickly made her way towards the backside area of the city, picking up another scout leader along the way and directing her to take her group there via a different route. Half way there, she again contacted the scout who first reported the magical stirring near the wall where, she knew, no routes existed at all. The scout confirmed his find once more. It only made the Eillistraeean assassin even more nervous than before and she felt her temples beginning to throb again. _Damn, not now!_ The last thing she needed was another headache.

The headache only threatened to become stronger when another scout reported similar disturbance further along the bank. _Sussun plyn dos!_ Nathyrra swore and sped up. As she cleared another roof, she thought she heard something emanating from her globe. The faintest of whispers reached her ears for a second, but the globe appeared dormant on her wrist. Sighing, she edged her way across the rooftop and reached a stalactite hanging low above it. Swiftly, she jumped onto it and soon enough, found herself on a hidden walkway carved inside the rock. Higher up, the walkway connected to a series of others, zigzagging above the northern docks section of the city and eventually, leading towards the spot where the first scout reported a disturbance.

It was so much like the old times, she mused: stalking the roofs, aiming to catch her victims unaware. She shuddered at the thought, refusing to acknowledge how many she had killed in the name of the Spider Bitch and later on, in the service of the Valsharess as well. This time it was different, she reminded herself sternly. This time, those she hunted truly deserved their fate at the end of her blade. She pointedly ignored the next ghostly whisper that reached her ears and carried on.

_Whispers, like fluttering wings, so distant, yet so close, their words lost to the ear… But their meaning clear. Whispers of past… Whispers of death._

_& & &_

BOOM!

The wall shattered just few feet away from the hidden scout, sending shards flying all around him, temporarily deafening him. The male threw himself on the ground and pulled his knees close to his body, both to avoid as many shards as he could and to give himself a moment to regain his hearing and balance.

As the dust settled down, he dared a glance that way, only to duck his head quicker than he raised it. What poured into the city through the opening was _not_ the sight he had wanted to witness.

Up on the parapets, Taransh's eyes narrowed to tiny, angry slits of wine-red as fully one-third of the invading baatezu simply winked out of existence in front of his eyes. Even the surviving abishai around him disappeared mid-fight. On his side of the wall, Imloth clenched his jaw tightly as he saw not only the berserk barbazu and several cornugon wink out but the huge ice-emanating gelugon winking out as well.

Far behind the enemy lines, the gigantic pit fiend rose up, stretched his wings mightily and teleported away, leaving only the smell of sulfur and a small pile of twinkling ashes in it's wake. The place was protected from scrying, but not enough to prevent the Seer from catching a glimpse of it anyway. She knew the meaning of what she saw even before Nathyrra's words erupted from all the globes at once: _They breached inside!_

**_& & &_**

_**scherzo da capo **_

The moment he heard the words, Valen's tail went stiff. Covered in abishai blood, gripping the double-handed flail with such force his bulging muscles rubbed against the inside of the armor plating on his upper arms, the fiery warrior was, as the saying went, truly a sight to behold. Preferably from several Planes away. His mind lost in frenzied currents of blood and battle rage, tanar'ri blood in his veins singing a flaming tune in his ears, the tiefling spun about and dashed towards the inner gates and the city beyond with a stalactite-rattling roar. Without being given any coherent order to follow, the squads directly under Valen's command filed up behind him, charging after their maddened leader.

_& & &_

Imloth had to think quick. While the army attacked from the outside, the troops under his command fought fiercely, secure in the knowledge their escape routes were within their reach. But if the enemy made it's way _behind_ their lines… That was another matter entirely and one they hadn't expected to come about. With the enemy, most pointedly the baatezu enemy, now standing between them and their continued existence, effectively wedging them in, blood-shot eyes all around him were turning his direction. Another look at the battlefield outside the walls, and Imloth made his decision.

"_Tarnash, go!_"

The Vhaeraunite commander didn't wait to be told twice, especially not something he was about to do anyway, whether commanded or not. Still, it did come as something of a surprise to hear Imloth give out the order no other Eillistraeean commander present would. Tarnash had to give it to his rival – the Weapon Master really _was_ a quick-thinker.

"_What?!_" Illiam's outraged voice cut through. "_Remain at your posts, all of you! Valen has gone into the city!_"

"_And so shall we,_" Ran'ree informed her in that mocking tone of his.

"_Stay at your posts!!_" the priestess hissed furiously but then the Seer's calm voice broke through and efficiently ended the conflict.

"_Do as Imloth said, all of you._"

Imloth nodded at the words and watched one-third of the force rapidly evacuate the walls. His decision was sound and the Seer only confirmed what he had already worked out himself. Tarnash _would_ abandon them one way or another. Better that he and his ranks engage the baatezu on their way and possibly, do some good along the way before they reach the escape routes than to have them stay here and start a fight without inviting the baatezu to join in. Valen had already rushed off, as was to be expected, and with Tarnash's and Ran'ree's forces coming up behind him and meeting up with Nathyrra's already there… Between the four of them, Imloth reasoned, the routes out of the city would be secure enough for his own troops to retreat from the walls and make a run for it as well. It made perfect sense, but Imloth had neither time nor will to cut it up in bites sufficiently tiny for Illiam to swallow. Although second only to the Seer in power and favor, the younger priestess had no sufficient large-scale battle experience to work it out as quickly as the rest of them. She would likely hate his guts for this for a while, but ah well.

Of course, the wizards would be sorely missed at the walls, but there was no helping it now. A buzz from the globe informed him that the Seer just ordered Illiam to send half of her group into the city as well and to focus her efforts on bringing as many wounded as she could into walking condition. They could not afford to be hampered down in any way on their upcoming run.

His lips pressed into a tight line, Imloth turned to the troops that remained with him. _I'm going in_ Lavoera's voice reached him from the globe. Another voice, of a squad commander this time, informed him briskly that Valen and the first of his squads made it inside as well. Nodding, Imloth raised his hand and gave signal to his warriors to start retreating towards the inner gate.

_& & &_

Inside the temple, the Seer stepped away from the Mirror. Sound of small feet frantically scrambling across the stone floor alerted her to the presence of a kobold within the premises. She turned to the flushed creature calmly (even though she never quite worked out how, exactly, does a kobold manage to flush in the first place) and laid a firm hand on his shoulder.

"_Deekin, I am leaving the Mirror to you. Keep us informed on everything that goes on._" She squeezed his shoulder once and let go. Deekin blinked, watching the proud drow stride purposefully towards the War Room doors while shrugging her robes off her shoulders.

The guards and several clerics standing in the grand antechamber of the temple watched in stunned silence as their leader walked through the door, adamantine chainmail glittering in the pale Faerie light, twin longswords resting comfortably on her hips. Not many instantly remembered that, no matter how rarely they saw her in actual hand-to-hand battle, the Seer was one of the most accomplished combatants they had in their ranks. The Dark Maiden demanded her followers to be skilled in battle as well as song and her priestesses practiced weaving music, dance and weapons into a deadly tapestry all the time. The Seer was no exception.

"_How did they get in?_" one of the clerics asked after the first moment of shock wore off.

"_The city is protected from both teleportation and gating, bar inside this very temple. They gated in their devils into the tunnels beyond the protective sphere and then made their way inside,_" the Seer answered, not pausing her stride.

"_Seer, is it… _" another cleric trailed off, embarrassed but her unspoken question clear on her face. The Seer smiled at her gently.

"_The pit fiend general, Bathurru, as Valen informed me last night, will be joining his forces inside._" She looked up, her eyes turning cold, determined steel. "_A pit fiend is a difficult opponent, for casters and warriors alike and even Valen and Lavoera would be hard-pressed against this one. It is time I join in the fight._"

That said, the Seer walked out of the temple, her elite guards and clerics falling in line behind her. Deekin watched them depart and then turned back to the War Room, clambered up a chair and, giving himself just enough time to lay his notes down on some maps, touched the Mirror with a clawed finger and brought up the image of the carnage soon to commence.

_& & &_

A shadow still haunted the walls, engaging in combat as often as not, and doing her best to resist the incessant tug in her chest to move further into the cavern and find the commanding camp in the back. Her globe flickered once and she heard scraps of conversation through it; not the whole thing, but enough for her to put together what had just happened in the city behind her.

Easing her way into the next shadow, she crouched low and placed her outstretched fingers on the ground between her feet for support while holding Charr loosely in her other hand so that the blade hung over the chasm beneath her. She squinted into the darkness. A lump of bile dried in her throat left the stale taste of ash in it's wake as the line between life and death grew even thinner inside her.

She would die. One way or the other, she would die. Once, she might have felt bitter pleasure welling up inside her at the thought of finally crossing over to the other side and not coming back. True oblivion must be better than the empty Void that ate at her from within for almost the entire four decades of her existence. The past several hours on the walls smothered even that twisted relief to so much ashes and dust. Keep breathing or not - It didn't make any difference any more. Her body endured whatever came it's way thus far but that was only a pretense. Inside, there was almost nothing left.

She looked at the scar on her arm and a grin of madness cracked her lips apart. For all the suicide tendencies she had harbored throughout the years, she never had the guts to actually go through with it. She was a coward. And she was good at being one. Cowards, she knew, where the ultimate survivors. The thought brought little comfort to the near-insane shadowdancer.

Eventually, she shrugged and turned while still crouching. One way to die was as good as the other she decided. She had no saying in the matter but at least, she could choose the _way_ she would go. And the way she chose was the one littered with corpses she couldn't cut down nearly two decades ago.

Struggling against the bites of the spell within, Shi'van finished her turn and made her way towards the city-side of the huge side wall. Sinvyl, if the dancer lasted long enough to even see her, would show up in there sooner or later. And should she indeed be still standing to witness the grand arrival with her own eyes… Well, that was a bridge she would cross if and when she reached it.

**_& & &_**

**IV **Rondo - **Faces of Evil (Hymn Of The Lower Planes)**

"_**The Infernal"**_

Wild-eyed barbazu poured out of the tunnels.

Click, click, click. Several crossbows fired in unison. The silent scouts darted from their perches as acidic bolts found their marks, and slid back into the shadows to reload. But not fast enough. The first barbazu to take the bolt was also the first one to draw blood.

Momentarily off-balance, the beast swung it's glaive furiously sending the saw-toothed edge deep into a drow's leg. Another scout jumped to his aid. Three monsters were instantly upon him. The barbazu launched their attacks simultaneously. A pair of glaives sliced across the dark-skinned body; the first took the head off, the second one cut the torso in half. The third barbazu threw it's head back and shrieked in outrage at the kill being stolen from it. Wildly, it twirled the glaive in it's hands as the torso hit the ground at it's feet and drove the weapon down with such force the tip scraped the stone beneath the corpse. All around the creature, more of it's kin fanned out, sensing the mortal auras. A shriek of pain rose high, soon joined by one, two, three more around it, signaled the warriors of hell had found their prey.

Glaives twirled in the air, sending sticky, hot fluid spraying around them; chunks of flesh rained onto the floor. Tendons ripped, sinews snapped, intestines splashed on the ground; flames and gore mixed in mid-air, the stench of death intonating an ode to carnage unleashed. Ferocity embodied, glaives dripped blood in the dark.

Screams erupted on either side as more barbazu found targets to sate their battle lust. The mortals –those few that still lived- suddenly realized their covers were of no use, abandoned their positions and broke into furious run. With nothing even remotely resembling disciplined, orderly ranks for which the baatezu armies were known throughout the Planes, the Hells' berserkers charged after them.

A cornugon emerged from the darkness of the tunnel, it's wings folded and tucked to it's back as it pushed it's massive frame through the narrow opening. Another emerged behind it. Both stretched their wings and inhaled deeply, basking in the aroma barbazu left in their wake. And then the two moved forth, others emerging from the side tunnels falling in lines behind them. By the time they reached the wide, empty pathway leading towards the docks, two scores of bat-winged warriors marched in perfect formation. Their orders were clear, and of all the baatezu, only the mighty gelugon could match the discipline and militaristic efficiency with which the Hells' elite carried their orders out.

_Destroy the structure known as "The Forge" and every mortal therein._

Sounds of battle reached the marching cornugon, but the creatures paid it no heed. Their time to do battle would come soon enough. All around them, Walls of Flame erupted from the ground, cutting the side-streets off. When they engaged in battle, they would do so on the terrain of their choosing. As the outline of the Forge grew bigger in the dark, six cornugon from each side broke off and took to the air. Two squads off to deal with the structure that was the source of acid that bit through their scaled skins, the rest of the cornugon took the first turn and headed deeper into the city. Their orders were also clear.

_Find the mortals led by a tiefling. Engage. Kill. _

A sheen of ice grew steadily across the solid rock. It seeped from within and creeped out from the edges of the tunnel. It spread over the outside wall, veneer of unnatural cold biting into the barely-noticeable cracks and forcing them wider. In a matter of seconds, more than ten square feet of stone creaked under the icy attack. And then it burst in a shower of shards of ice and rock. A gelugon stepped in behind it, flanked by two of it's cornugon bodyguards. Not that the gigantic insectoid looked like it needed them. It's body emanating cold beyond anything known on mortal Planes, the ground beneath it's alien feet freezing solid with each step it made, the second most powerful of the denizens of Hells walked into Lith My'athar and headed for the center of the city and beyond.

Three others emerged in similar fashion. They left drow corpses in their wake, frozen and mangled as the cold fury of Hells tore them apart. Taking the city streets in huge strides, the four moved with a purpose towards their appointed targets and dispatched anyone and anything that stood in their path.

**_& & &_**

"_**bridge" 1**_

Out on the plateau between the temple and the training grounds, the battle was in full swing. Valen's forces raced through the streets, headed for the thick of it and cutting any and all barbazu that dared stand in their way. The tiefling needed no Mirror-wielding kobold to guide his steps. Eyes ablaze with Abyssal fury, he scattered the barbazu left and right, flail flying wildly, bathing him in red-stained death. The Blood Wars raged on, no matter the battlefield. And the most turbulent battlefield right then was inside the teifling's chest. Roaring in the tongue of the Abyss, the tiefling raced to reach the Seer's side. Only in her presence could he hope to quell the raging beast that dwelled inside, before it consumed him completely.

Coming into the city from the opposite side to Valen's, Tarnashs' ranks raced forth as well, only narrowly avoiding a meeting with the advancing gelugon. His contingent split up in smaller ranks, easier to maneuver and harder to hit. Still emerging from the tunnels they had opened, Valsharesses' ranks poured out into the streets, not only the baatezu but the much more numerous mortal ranks as well. Scouts and assassins already stalked the shadows inside. What Tarnash's groups managed to avoid in baatezu, they got doubly served in drow. Lizard riders pushed through, spurring their mounts into charge, death lances leading the way. Wizards and priestesses spread out, secure behind the duergar mercenaries and launched spell after spell the oncoming troops' way. Tarnash noted with some weird, grim kind of satifaction that many of his followers made a beeline for the priestesses whenever they spotted one.

Alerted at the incoming cornugon flight by a helpful kobold, Rizolvir hoisted his large crossbow, gathered what explosives he could and summoned what few troops he had to his side. Quickly, they ran out of the Forge before the baatezu were even half way there and took to the roofs. The small force quickly made it's way towards the main battle, then shifted slightly to cover the flank opposite of the one Valen would arrive at and, nesting securely in their perches, begun raining death in all directions they could possibly aim.

Nathyrra raced through the streets. A gust of blood sprayed her shoulder as she sprinted past a falling scout, his arm hanging limply on his side, the saw-toothed weapon of the barbazu all but taking it off. Left and right, screams of the wounded and sounds of steel assaulted her ears. Ducking to a side to avoid barbazu claws, the assassin fell to the ground, rolled out of reach and brought her hand up. A bolt of acid shot forth from her palm and splattered on the creature's face. The barbazu hollered as it features melted away but Nathyrra was already gone. She ran on, deeper into the fray but her eyes weren't trained on the infernal ranks that clashed with her own. She watched the shadows instead, knowing all too well what they hid. The Red Sisters were on the loose. And to hunt them down, Nathyrra had to become as them again; to hunt them down, she had to become The Assassin once more.

**_& & &_**

"_**The Assassin"**_

How did it come to this, Nathyrra wondered as a swift leap brought her in line with yet another one of her former allies. The two circled around each other menacingly, ignoring the skirmish around them. And yet, Nathyrra couldn't help but notice that more Eillistraeean than their enemies' bodies painted the streets in red. She narrowed her eyes and feigned an attack, luring her opponent to step forth, then quickly fell on one knee and plunged her blade in the Sister's belly from below. _Sister…_

Her mind darkened as the battle dragged on. Somewhere behind her, her leader and her most elite were locked in merciless onslaught with the baatezu ranks. It was a mighty clash, but still, Nathyrra knew beyond doubt that they were losing. And fast.

It wasn't a battle, curse it – it was a damned massacre! The army of the Valsharess was too strong, too numerous to overcome! One question alone begun burning it's way to the front of Nathyrra's mind - Would any of them would make it to the escape routes at all? And even if they did, how many Sisters would be waiting for them there, in the deep shadows that Nathyrra once shared with them? _Sisters…_

_Argentine illumination pales. In the shades of the dying light, argentine glitter's no more, painting the world in grey._

How long ago was it when she, too, had called herself that? How long ago since she, too, wielded power and respect and yes, fear, appropriate to her gender and rank? Unbidden, images of smirking Tarnash, growling tiefling and countless lost battles that had finally led them to this one flashed rapidly through her mind. And as she ran past yet another combat group doomed to die and spotted her lover leading an assault from the rooftops on the baatezu flanks, old darkness and bitter anger rising up inside her, Nathyrra found herself wondering – Was it really worth it? By the time she closed the circle and again reached the plateau where the main battle took place, Nathyrra wasn't certain any more if the answer was truly 'yes'.

Her mind a-blur, Nathyrra kept to her track, but she couldn't deny the ire within her any longer. They were losing! Their enemy proved craftier, trickier, better! It was all lost! She had believed in their cause, believed in the Seer, believed in it all! She gave up everything, _everything_ she had achieved only to see everything fall down to pieces around her ears.

She had been told there is goodness in everyone, even in her! She had been told the Dark Maiden took care of their own, but dammit, not even the damnable Masked God showed up to aid his followers, let alone the Lady of the Dance! She had been told the good will prevail but…

_It was a lie! A lie! __**A lie!**_

Something inside the assassin snapped as another Red Sister attacked her from behind. Whirling around, she locked her gaze on the vision of her former self. Slender blade in one hand, whip in the other, sleek armor glistening with blood of her enemies, the Red Sister danced away from Nathyrra's unexpected riposte and laughed loudly. Triumph and pride played across her features as she met Nathyrra's attack with fleetness and grace.

Nathyrra brought the Sister down in more time than it took her to defeat any of her scouts on the training grounds. Even as she fell, the Sister still smirked at her opponent. Smugly. Derisively. And that one last look into the proud female's eyes, told Nathyrra the truth she knew deep inside but refused to face until now. She had chosen and chosen wrongly, throwing away all she had for the sake of a fleeting dream. But perhaps, she thought as she rose up and trained her eyes towards the plateau, the circumstances, no matter how disastrous, were not beyond redemption just yet.

_Evaporating, argentine moisture, revealing the truth of argentine eyes._

New vigor coursing her veins, the assassin gripped her rapier tightly and with the steady strides of one having found new strength and purpose in life, she headed into the heart of battle.

Cornugon swooped down, clawing their way in and dealing devastating lashes with their tails on their way up again. Barbazu charged at the flanks, paying no heed to the fallen beneath their feet, be they their own or the mortals that they fought against. The drow forces of the Valsharess kept circling the perimeter of the combat zone, deftly sliding in and out and always, leaving a fresh trail of blood behind. The defenders converged to the plateau, slicing or sneaking their way through the enemy ranks. More forces were closing in; Valen's group almost there, Tarnash's holding the flank on the escape route side. Walls of Fire rose as fast as they got dispelled, smaller fires licking the stones of the square. Every so often, a lighting streaked through the combatants' ranks as the cornugon lifted themselves up and rained their innate magic from above, dealing death even while regenerating their wounds. Amidst all that, the Seer danced, her twin blades slashing, sometimes wide, sometimes close, keeping the enemies at bay. Her swords seemed to sing their own tune, the haunting tones weaving their way through the chaos, soothing the ears of those who heard them and beckoning to those who had yet to arrive.

Another group joined in, fighting their way to the Seer's side. The Seer, flanked by two of her guards, pressed the attack, creating a moment's opening for the latest group to rush through. Pushing the enemies away, she pirouetted back and smiled at the newcomers briefly before putting one of her blades down thus freeing her hand for another cast.

A cast that she never got to finish. A sharp stab cut through her ribs at an angle, a vicious slender blade found it's way through the chains of her armor, cutting through flesh, chipping the bone, raking the lungs and finally, piercing the Seer's fast-pounding heart.

Blood burst from her mouth as the blade retracted with a twist, making further damage on it's way out. The Seer's eye shot wide as she felt her heart suddenly slow it's beats, the poison of the blade working fast and true. She spun around as her legs gave in, catching the glimpse of the treacherous blade that came in so swiftly and ended her long life so abruptly. The blade dripped blood, _her_ blood, and the eyes above it shone the same deep red of cold, calculated determination.

"_Nathyrra…_" the Seer gasped through the blood that poured out of her mouth, and sank to her knees. By the time her head bounced off the stone at the assassin's feet, the Seer's eyes saw nothing at all.

The sounds of battle coming to her muffled, as if they originated from long way away, the assassin stepped back, her bloody work finally done. Eons ago, she had been tasked with slaying the annoying, rebellious Promenade leader. She had failed to do so; instead, she switched her allegiances to the one she was supposed to kill. She gave up everything that day, and gained nothing in return. But now, her error was corrected and her mind was as clear as faceted diamonds.

She jumped away and broke into run, using the moment of stunned shock all around to dart into shadows and away from the allies now turned enemies again. Her error was corrected; now it was time for redemption. She could return to her old life at last, regain the trust she once lost and climb through the ranks of the Red Sisters once again, rising to the very top and earning all the favor and respect she deserved.

_To gain again what once was lost. Precious and lost… But glittering still._

Her time with the Seer was a mistake. She knew that now. But no matter how long it lasted, it was but a temporary weakness on her part. Nathyrra ran through the darkness, only marginally aware of the voices rising out in shock and denial behind her. Up on a roof, she spotted her lover and her eyes turned two wrathful slits. Rage burned inside her as she watched the most pointed reminder of her weakness yet. The male, the damnable _male_ with his smooth talk and insolent manners; the male who shared her bed out of his own volition instead of coming when bidden and disappearing when no longer wanted. What was she to him? A female to be respected and feared? No! She was but a challenge! She knew that now, every little detail of her life here shining clearly in her mind. She was but a challenge to the insolent male above her, just a lascivious, dangerous prey to be conquered. But she was not that deplorable creature any more!

_I am free, and I am reborn. _

_**I **__am__**… I am… **_

With a growl, she propelled herself up, her foot landing on a window sill. Her other leg shot up and she extended her arm upwards. Kicking against the sill, she gained momentum, the muscles of her arm flexing and pulling her body even further up. Combining the two in flawless synchronization, Nathyrra flew upward, somersaulted forward feet over head and landed on the tips of her toes in front of her stunned ex-lover's face. She noted, with a vile smirk twisting her features, the male hesitated for just a fraction of a second before bringing his crossbow up to greet her. A split second was all the assassin needed. The rapier, still stained by the Seer's life blood, shot forth sure and true and pierced her former lover's throat. She retracted her blade and brought it up and between her eyes in a mock salute before making a backwards flip off the roof and landing nimbly on the street below. The vile smile spread wider across her face as she felt the pleasant rush. The trill of the kill she had almost forgotten surged through her veins again. The Assassin was back.

_**At last, it is as it should be.**_

**_& & &_**

"_**bridge" 2**_

Illiam gasped audibly and skidded to a halt as the globe in her hand suddenly swirled bloody red. Her face went pale as she turned to her clerics, their faces as stunned as her own. She gazed at them in silence, the words forming in her throat but refusing to come out, as if keeping them from going past her lips would somehow make them less real, less true. She inhaled sharply, grasping a hold on her senses once more and forced the dreaded words to roll across her tongue.

"_The Seer is dead._"

Inside the temple, Deekin clutched the Mirror tightly, not wanting to believe his eyes. A shudder ran down his spine causing his wings to tremble. For the first time as far as he could remember, the kobold bard found himself at loss for words. All but four, and those he muttered softly under his breath, for once in his life getting the grammar right:

"_The Seer is dead._"

Up on the inner wall, Imloth stared at the globe as if the thing had just exploded in his hands. Distantly, he could feel the bile rising up his throat and a distinct pain stabbed at his chest. Swallowing hard, he turned to his troops and signaled silently:

_The Seer is dead._

The golems no longer operated the nets but were engaged in battle with the abishai and what other enemies made it to the both gate courtyards thus far. Their leader, Ferron, dislodged a lizard rider from the saddle in one mighty sweep when the globe imbedded in his arm suddenly warmed up and then went ice cold. He neither stopped his attack nor flinched, giving no indication of even noticing it. But as he and his group held their ground, he sent out an unspoken sentiment passing through his ranks of iron and steel: a sentiment of sorrow and a head bowed in respect for the fallen ally and friend.

_The Seer is dead…_

Tarnash glared at the globe balefully and exchanged glances with Ran'ree. Both drow knew what the swirling red meant and both knew what consequences that would soon produce. Curse the fool to hells and back, Tarnash spat, couldn't she have chosen some better moment to die?! Noticing the wizard was looking at him expectantly, the rebel commander brought a globe to his lips and whispered: "_Proceed as planned._" And after a moment's consideration, for the benefit of those with lesser globes who had not yet heard, he added:

"_The Seer is dead_"

Sensing the presence of the pit fiend growing closer and closer within the city, Lavoera still dove for the nearest stalactite and flew into a crevice along it's side. Her heart pumped rapidly as the sight she had just witnessed played out in front of her eyes over and over again. The pain of loss assaulted her from the inside, and she fought hard to steady her breathing as the sounds of a battle resumed rose from beneath her once more. For a few moments there, she couldn't even hear them, her mind wrapped around one thought alone:

_The Seer is dead._

Valen stopped mid-strike, clutching the barbazu beard in his hand. The beard, still being attached to it's owner, wriggled in his grasp but it might as well turned into a pit fiend right then for all the tiefling cared. He stood and watched the Seer go down. Even across the square, he could clearly see the blade plunging into her side, could see in slow-motion as her legs gave in beneath her and he watched her body slump forward, graceful, even in death. And his mind emptied of all thoughts at once as he watched his entire world collapse alongside the slender drow form that he failed to reach in time. And as failure, agony and betrayal struck him at the same time in an overwhelming crescendo, his chest grew suddenly free of all emotion, leaving room only for the searing red rage he no longer tried to control.

The Seer was dead. And Valen had died with her. But in the shell that once held the tiefling's shattered heart, The Demon got reborn anew.

**_& & &_**

"_**The Demon"**_

His crazed eyes ablaze, the Demon caught sight of a slender figure, edging away from the Seer's body and sprinting away.

His lips curled up, revealing slightly pointed incisors, rearranging his features into a visage of the Abyss. A growl started deep in his throat and worked it's way up as the Demon threw his head backwards, letting the scream that stirred in his chest catch up with the growl in his throat and then released both in a thundering crescendo.

The sound that previously had only been heard over the war-torn wastes of the Outlands rang out across the battlefield; a battle cry, so primal that no creature that heard it could remain steady on it's feet. Roaring in the native tongue of the Abyss, the demon charged forth, last shreds of control peeled off of his shoulders like discarded skin. One thought alone crystallized in the smoldering recesses of his inflamed mind: _Vengeance! _He had his target in sight; everything else in his path was merely an inconvenience to be smashed through – the fact soon realized by the closest lizard riders group as the Demon threw himself at them with the fury only those who fought in the Blood Wars could even begin to comprehend.

Incoherent growls burst from his throat as he drove his flail deep into the lizard's skull. The rider cried out as his mount reeled back and fell on top of him in a heap and tried to remove the straps that held him to the saddle. With another wide-flying strike, the tiefling brought his flail down again, catching the drow in the ribs, the force of the blow almost dislodging the unfortunate rider from the saddle in one go.

Jumping over the twitching, bloodied form on the ground, the tiefling met the second rider head-on. The lizard reared back, avoiding the strike launched it's way and it's rider's lance shot forth. The tiefling parried the strike by swatting the offending weapon aside with enough force to nearly bring this rider out of the saddle as well. The drow held his balance though, dropping the lance and grabbing his sword instead as he spurred the mount to the left and around the maddened half-breed.

Another rider came in from the right, lance leading the way and this time, the vicious weapon caught the tiefling across the chest. Not losing his momentum, the tiefling spun about, momentarily turning his back to the rider on his right and sent the flail flying upwards and into the lance-wielder's chin. An audible sickly 'crunch' of the chin bashed into the skull and the'crack!' of the vertebrae in the neck signaled the rider's untimely demise. As the flail reached the peak of it's flight, the tiefling completed the spin, bringing the weapon down again, shattering both the sword and the hand that held it. Both lizards tried to bite him, but their teeth only scraped the metal of his breastplate before a sequence of furious strikes finished both of them off. Dislodging chunks of flesh from the bodies, the Demon kept the strikes coming only as long as necessary to shove them out of his path. They hadn't even stopped twitching before he jumped away and moved to the next target foolish enough to stand in the way between the Demon and his target.

Three more riders fell down as the Demon continued his onslaught. It was clear to those who saw the speeding mass of rage and steel coming their way that Valen was way beyond telling his friends from his foes. Those who realized it quickly enough scrambled out of his way; those who didn't soon had the head of the Devil Bane crushing their bones.

The cornugon dived, their intended target in sight. The Demon ran on in mindless fury, seemingly oblivious to the treat from above, but as the first cornugon came within reach, Devil Bane was ready for it, guided by instinct alone. The mighty weapon connected with the incoming baatezu violently, hitting the creature in the chest even as it's claws dug into the Demon's shoulder. With a shriek, the cornugon got sent flying backwards and into his kin's flight path. The next one in line managed to swoop past the Blood Wars veteran, scoring another hit on his shoulder, but as the baatezu lashed out with it's tail in an attempt to knock his victim over, the Demon grabbed it mid-lash and pulled hard. Scales cut into his palm, tiny spines along the tail's length sending trickles of poison into his body, but the Demon was too frenzied to take notice. Still tugging the tail of the beast twice his size and mass, he dug his heels into the ground and begun a spin. The momentum suddenly working against it, the cornugon lashed out with it's claws as the Demon spun faster and faster before launching the impromptu baatezu missile over the heads of the advancing barbazu.

The monster that once responded to the name of Valen knew nothing but rage and bloodlust now. He wasn't even sure if he was in Underdark or out on the Outer Planes again. Nor did he care. Nothing mattered to him any more save the searing pain running it's course through his chest, fueling his fury and driving him even further into berserker's rage. The barbazu that engaged him next quickly discovered that their own battle frenzy just met it's match and more.

Cutting across the square and sprinting straight into the wide street that connected it to the dockside, he never took his eyes off the fleeing figure ahead. Quick and nimble as she was on her feet, the once-and-future Red Sister broke into run, but jump, turn corners or hide as hard as she might, the nearly three hundred pounds of blind fury kept close on her heels. And were steadily closing in. As her breaths came faster and more labored with the effort, Nathyrra ran even faster but deep inside, she knew that the speeding wrath incarnate behind her would follow her if she ran to the gates of the Abyss itself.

As she rounded another corner sharply, her pursuer hot on her heels, she realized she can no longer keep it up. If she kept running, she would soon tire too much to put up a fight once it came to that. So better that she faces the tiefling now, the narrow street offering her advantage in both cover and the space available for wielding her weapon to the best effect while at the same time hampering the possible movements of the flail-wielding harbinger of destruction behind. Blending into a corner, she brought up both spell and blade and waited for the tiefling to run in.

His query almost within reach, the Demon grabbed the corner of the building, and swung around, his bloodied shoulder barely missing the opposite wall as he veered his bulk into the street. Was it luck or instinct or something third that alerted the demon to danger ahead, only the Smiling Lady could possibly tell, but whatever the reason, instead of _running_ into the alley, he leaped in instead, easily clearing more than twenty feet of space and the puddle of magical grease on the floor. His feet touched the ground and he growled madly, temporarily losing the sight of his prey.

A blade hissing straight into his exposed throat the second he landed informed him of his opponent's whereabouts. He turned to her sharply and her blade missed his jugular but scored a deep gash along the side of his throat. Blood and spit on his neck and chin, the Demon continued his turn, meaning to bring his flail about above his head in a spin. But the Assassin was wise to chose an alley this narrow, for his weapon struck the too-close wall behind him. Nathyrra withdrew her blade and stepped to the side, launching another strike the Demon's way. Or at least, she meant to do so. His fury knowing no bounds, the beast in front of her kept to his intended strike, the head of the flail sending the sparks flying as it scraped across the wall. Not even an enraged Valen could make that maneuver work, but neither did he have to. His furious momentum did not bring his flail in the desired position but it did push his bulk forward instead and he ended up driving his full mass into the assassin in front of him.

Nathyrra gasped as few hundred pounds of maddened fury slammed her into the wall, cracked her ribs, stole her breath and sent sharp edges of bone into her lungs. Releasing the grip on his flail, the Demon continued the strike with his left hand alone, bringing it up above his head and down in an arc, driving his elbow onto the stunned assassin's head. Her cheekbone shattered as his elbow connected and her head got driven back and into the wall, the back of skull cracking against the unyielding stone. She couldn't even cry out her protest as the demon pulled back a step only to slam his body even harder into hers. She felt her hip bone give in under pressure, his spit sprayed across her bloodied, shattered face.

He brought his arm up again and drove it down with even more force than before, hitting the same spot again and dislodging her eye from it's socket. His other hand released the flail as well and he slammed a fist into her midsection again and again, rapidly turning her internal organs into only so much bloodied ooze. She was still alive when his knee came up, shattering her pelvic bone and driving her abdomen into the wall again. The wall wouldn't budge, so her body had to. In the last moment before her consciousness faded, Nathyrra though hazily she caught a glimpse of Valen beneath the visage of the beast. The look in his blue eyes held no more mercy for her than the flame-eyed monster's had.

The demon kept pounding the assassin's battered form long after she drew her last breath and long after her body stopped resembling one and turned into a bloodied mass of shattered bones pinned to the wall with it's own guts and blood. Mercilessly, he kept hitting the mangled corpse again and again, his own knuckles cracking against the hard stone; lips drawn back in a feral snarl, spit and foam on his chin and light of the Abyss blazing in his demonic eyes.

**_& & &_**

"_**bridge" 3**_

"_Retreat!_" Imloth hissed into the globe as Deekin informed him enemy squads were moving towards his position from the city-side. There was no point in making any foolish last stands. Let the enemy claim the inner wall too; with any luck, Imloth and his troops would manage to avoid them in the streets and reach the escape routes with as little casualties as possible. And, he smirked bitterly, letting Tarnash make a run for it first also meant letting Tarnash and his gang take the brunt of the charge onto themselves. The four gelugon Deekin reported though… Imloth shook his head and signaled to his troops to speed up. There was no way his rapidly diminishing ranks could fight one, let alone all four, and hope to win. They had to run fast to reach the city before the creatures reached the chasm bridge and cut them off.

"_We'll hold the rear,_" a metallic voice came from the globe as Imloth and his ranks descended from the wall and broke into run.

"_Don't dally,_" was all the response Imloth cared to give at that moment. The golem had made his decision and there was no point in trying to dissuade him from it. And if the golem was ready to, quite probably sacrifice himself and his own just to buy Imloth and his troops a few extra moments in which to escape, than so be it. Imloth had no more strength nor will to act noble any more.

_& & &_

A shelf in the dungeons beneath the Maeviir compound slid aside, revealing a passage behind. Climbing the steps and smiling all the way, Sinvyl stepped through the opening and took an amused look around. The last time the cells have been used was when some of the Maeviir rebels found release for their anger in applying jagged, heated and barbed tools previously reserved for priestesses of the house on those very same females few days ago. Smell of fresh blood was still potent in the air. Sinvyl inhaled deeply and licked her lips in appreciation. Perhaps, if there were any survivors to be had and if the mood hit her, she might test the potential these facilities had to offer.

She was still twirling the dagger in her hand as she walked out of the cell and, forcing the heavy lock open with a single muttered spell, stepped into the hall beyond. Two Red Sisters followed her steps as she cocked her head in further amusement as she inspected the torture chambers' layout with an air of a professional about her. The dagger in her hand had been changing color steadily for the past several days; in the last few hours, both pace and intensity of the change increased rapidly. She glanced at it as it grew considerably warmer against her palm. The blade was red now, the deep crimson matching the color pattern of the armors her retinue wore. Sinvyl nodded and her smile grew wider, a wicked edge making it's way to the curve of her lips. She turned to the Red Sisters behind her and lifted her hand, turning her palm towards them, awarding them the full view of the blade. The assassins returned her smile with a pair of knowing grins and she chuckled.

And laughed out loudly when several minutes after, as she reached the ground floor of the compound, the blade suddenly flashed cold and lost all color. Well... it was bound to happen sooner or later anyway. Had no one else had. Sinvyl would have seen to that herself.

Walking up another flight of stairs, she reached to the first floor and headed for the grand balcony that afforded her clear view of the city and the temple. And the carnage that took place on the plateau as the defenders were trying to make their retreat. Two clerics and a wizard from her ranks were already there, leaning on the fence and observing the massacre with obvious delight. All three turned and offered deep bows as she walked forth and leaned on the fence between them.

"_The tide of battle had turned against the fools,_" a priestess to her right chuckled. Sinvyl regarded her with a raised eyebrow slyly.

"_It never flowed in their favor in the first place,_" she smirked confidently and then leapt up, threw her legs over the railing and levitated down. She felt somewhat stiff; a bit of light exercise would be a pleasant way to work some of the tension in her muscles out.

_& & &_

"_We should go,_" one of the warriors signaled to Tarnash as their group alternatively sneaked and fought their way to the closest escape route not infested by Sinvyl's troops.

"_Not yet._" Tarnash turned away from the female, not paying attention to her questioning expression and pressed on. He had heard Imloth give command to retreat as well as the kobold's latest warning about the incoming troops. Tarnash was fully intent on letting the enemy reach the inner, and if at all possible, the outer wall as well before he left the city. _The more the merrier,_ he smirked, quoting a surface phrase in his head, but his mirth was quickly stolen as he once again noted his own ranks' growing uneasiness. Several of them were throwing glances his way that bordered on open enmity when they thought he wasn't looking. And Tarnash knew why.

He had told them that they would prevail because their god was with them. But the god hadn't so much as sent a shadow to aid them so far. It was a small comfort at that point that the Dark Maiden obviously did no more than the Masked God to protect her own. Deep inside, Tarnash knew their god _was_ still with them. His troops, however, needed reassurance or else…

And as if on cue, as his troubling thoughts reached a crescendo, the familiar tingle of shadows drew across the skin of his upper face. He lowered his head for a moment, hair framing his features and momentarily hiding them from his followers' eyes. And then, tossing strands of hair over the shoulder, he cocked his head with a grin and winked.

It was all the reassurance they needed to get.

_& & &_

A shadow skipped from one deep patch of darkness to another, shadows and darkness within her growing more potent than shadows and darkness outside that hugged her frame. Blood splattered across her body, some of it her own, more of it from her opponents. So far, she dished out more than she received but it was only a matter of time before the two even out. And Shi'van simply didn't care. Not insane the way she had been during the Maeviir overturn, a different kind of madness consumed her from within now. Old shadows rose to greet her, resignation, numbness and instincts almost as old as she was now guiding her actions fully.

Just as Karandras emerged from another shadow, abishai tail in his muzzle and grumbling something about how baatezu should come equipped with a bag of salt and, if at all possible, some barbeque sauce too, Shi'van suddenly went stiff. A sharp hiss escaped through her lips as she clenched her teeth and grabbed the wall for support. Karandras looked up, all thoughts of grilled baatezu momentarily wiped from his mind and replaced by something much more sinister. It was so potent even he had felt it – the sharp stab of the spell his companion was under that could mean only one thing: the one with whose death Shi'van was tasked was suddenly much, much closer than before.

The fiend turned to the dancer and cocked his massive head. Staring blankly for a moment, the dancer seemed to have reached some sort of a decision (or was it mere resignation to the fate soon to come?) and, not looking the shadow wolf's way, slowly unhooked the bag from her belt and tossed it his way. She got rid of the darkened communication globe next, while the bag was still in flight. Karandras caught the bag, discarding the impromptu snack from his muzzle and blinked questioningly. After another moment's consideration, Shi'van took the bracelet-like item from her wrist, the Relic she had found nearly year ago on the Shadow Plane, and tossed it into the bag in the beast's muzzle. She didn't say anything, but she didn't have to either; her actions spoke clearly enough. She wouldn't need anything any more, except possibly her blades.

"_You will come back for this,_" Karandras informed her casually, as if that went without saying. Shi'van merely stared ahead, seemingly oblivious to his imparted thought.

"_Go home..._" she mumbled, reaching for his neck and giving it one final stroke before resolutely pushing him away, out of her reach and into the shadows he claimed home.

With a low growl, the beast complied and in a blink of a careless eye, he was gone, leaving the dancer alone – alone with her thoughts and the shadows of herself. Not caring to take cover, the dead-eyed dancer started down the street, offering her body the blades awaiting her around the corner.

Just as she had done ages ago, walking the streets of a distant city, she walked now but a Whore, for a few coins and hoping for death.

**_& & &_**

"_**The Whore"**_

For a moment, her arms hung loosely by her sides, the blades hung in her hands as if they would soon fall to the ground, escaping her warm fingers for the cold comfort of the cavern floor. Through a tangle of hair, her eyes stared from a dark skinned face. Her expression was not easily determined; it spoke of pain and the barely restrained intensity of madness.

"_You want to dance_," she croaked, sounding as tired and defeated as her body language suggested, "_but it isn't polite to write your names in my dance card without asking._"

The four fighters boxing her in at perfect right angles only taunted her. One of them, less cautious and more believing of her uncaring stance, snapped his twin blades up and stalked toward her. He wanted to end her and move on to the other targets and more glory.

Shi'van cocked her head to the side, sending tendrils of her fine hair across her face. The male was approaching with confident, even spaced, easily timed, paces. Obviously he had no understanding of the dance, he did not sense the beat of her heart; the tempo that would set the timing of the dance.

She sneered at his adagio and rolled her head back until she was staring at him over the curves of her sleek cheek bones. Far away she heard the rattle of snake tails, the beginnings of the chiming tabrets, and the ghostly whine of brass. Her militant suitor understood nothing of his dance partner or the song; he even had the audacity to attempt to lead.

His blades came in, both diving in to skewer her stomach before veering off, in what the male hoped would end her with a terrific shower of blood and internal organs. He chose the gut for the dramatic show it could provide and because gut wounds were the most painful and slow of mortal wounds. Like all his kind, his taste for cruelty and suffering was greatly refined.

There was a split second of amusement in Shi'van's mind as the blades bit at her stomach, but she did not succumb to the image of her demise he was painting. Far faster than any of them had supposed was possible for the skinny female, her blades whipped out, the looseness of her limbs providing her all the elasticity and power of movement she needed in order to sweep his artistic vision away and turn the tools of his trade back and above his chest.

The opening was large and easily filled by a blade. While Shi'van held the strength to plunge her instrument of destruction to the hilt, it was not necessary. Not necessary and totally at odds with the music flowing with the hot venom in her veins. The blade whipped out of his torso and her heel swooshed in, blasting his fine cheekbone up into his eye socket.

His scream was discordant, but he fell back in excellent form, hitting the eager ground and waiting shadows. His blades flew wide, ringing with drow-forged beauty as her momentum brought the dance to the next male on her list.

She was beautiful. Covered in blood. A vision of swirling steel and shadows. Madness contained in tight circles.

The first was taken by carelessness, the second nearly died in his surprise. Decades of battle and training alone built his instincts enough to turn aside her rising _allegrissimo_. Surviving her initial onslaught, he responded with angry ferocity.

_Irato_, the sense of dance within her commented. His double blades were in perfect symmetry; a matched set, but used as dispassionately as meat cleavers. The artist sneered at the brutish display. Grabbing hands came to mind, seeking to pull the dancer from the dance and into sweating arms.

Her own blades rose and fell independent of one another, weaving inside the music, pushing his _irato_ away with flowing serenity. His quick, chopping motions came in from all sides, but she swirled on within her cage of blades, deflecting his percussion with swords that seemed to trail shadows in their wake.

Fighting with no understanding of her deadly dance, he instead began to form a sense of his strength in relation to hers. It was rare to encounter a female with lesser strength, but here she was. He began to hammer away with even more brutality, his strikes calculated to wear down her arms and knock the waspish blades away entirely.

The ringing between their instruments became louder, the hard vibration of his percussion was effective, each strike jarring her wrists. Disgusted, Shi'van wondered when she had allowed him to lead the dance.

His plan was obvious, his downfall less so. At the periphery of her senses, she saw the other two soldiers advancing, one seeking to back up her current opponent and the other ranging to the left to out-flank her. Tension sought to grind an ugly edge to her grace, but she felt the answer to situation coming up with a hard rattle of snake tails.

The soldier's overhand blows rained death from above and Shivan's deflections were coming in weaker and weaker curves. A sudden chop slapped her right arm down with a brutal note, sweeping the blade away to her full reach.

Finding the opening he had sought to pry apart, he blasted away at the remaining blade with both hands.

But her left-hand blade simply dipped in deft disengage while his blades charged past, completely deaf to the symphony.

He caught himself, tried to use momentum to chop deep into her hip and thigh instead, but saw her right arm rising up like a phoenix within the fire of his previous strike. The sword had not left her hand, but had drank every single drop of power he had fed it.

Under her own strength, she may not have been able to part his white-haired head from his neck, but his strength was a different story.

"Overture denied!"

Red spray hit her torso in a gush of heat.

Spinning one perfect revolution with her blades outward at waist height, Shi'van took in the positions of the two would-be dancers that had yet to join her. Her stop was sudden, harsh, and sent blood and sweat from her body and clothing in a vain route: there was only more to come.

The warrior that had sought to outflank her signaled to his comrade to come ahead. His motion implied he would attack her from behind. Shi'van welcomed the venture with a haughty smirk and mock salute. She invited them in with a roll of her shoulders and hands that spun her swords through sinuous waves.

Though she was surely faced with death, it would not end then and there; there were greater far-reaching arcs yet to come in the symphony. This was still just the offing, the tip of the tiefling's tail, so to speak. She eyed the monstrous visions of battle all about and amended her thought; perhaps it was more the tip of the cornugon's tail. Thinking of the future, perhaps it was most appropriately the tip of the Valsharess' sharp nails.

The pair took her invitation, though not simultaneously. She tsked loudly; though drow were graceful and given to beauty in their movements, these two were similarly impaired to the call of music. Within her heart, the tempo increased, the build up was coming to the first of many minor crescendos.

To buy herself time, she did not wait for her first attacker to come on, but charged him with a gleeful look. The lines of her face were distinct, lined as they were with his dead comrades' blood. He parried, bringing both swords up to meet hers. They came together, faces so close he could feel her breath hot on his face. He made to shove her away, but she was already rolling around him. Shoulder to shoulder, back to back.

Snarling, he thrust one sword over his shoulder and the other to meet her should she continue to roll right in front of him again. His efforts met with gay laughter and dank cavern air. A skilled blind fighter, the drow felt her presence slip around his knees even though he wasn't looking down at all. She was like a fish through water!

She reared up before him, face still madly taunting, emerald eyes mocking. He'd never experienced anything like her except in the intoxicating dance pits he'd known in his home city. She was fast, much faster than expected, but despite the alacrity of her attacks, he'd already seen a sample of her technique. He sent his blades in to perforate her endlessly; in his mind's eye he held the image of a body so punctured that its blood didn't know which hole to pour out first.

Behind her, his comrade was sheathing one of his swords in favor of a different approach. His face was swept up in a look of intense concentration. The trick would be to get out of his way if she evaded him.

She gave no indication that she noticed the soldier behind her, a hand held crossbow aimed between her shoulder blades. Her lack of indication was indication enough that she was aware of him behind her.

Weaving side to side, she danced between his precise strikes, redirecting his strikes when necessary, but mindful that this one seemed to have an inkling of the music. Not all of her weaving and redirecting was working on him. A snake fang came through, stabbing into her shoulder, but without the burning venom.

The click of the crossbow trigger was drowned in the rattle of snake tails.

And the bolt snatched from the air by the powerful jaws of a ravening black shadow. A snarl and the projectile broke into several pieces in the wolf's slavering fangs. The large pieces dropped on the ground, impotent, while some of the splinters wept down his jowls, riding dripping saliva.

The fiend hit the ground and rebounded straight into the soldier's chest, his jaws clamping on the male's face. Violent twists of the beast's head in a brutal figure eight, tore most of fighter's face off, but not before snapping his neck. Just as quickly Karandras dropped the mutilated drow to the ground and bounded off for game elsewhere.

Knowing Karandras' movement within the music, Shi'van laughed through the pain and called on the darkness within and all around them. The crescendo was upon them, his time was up, and she knew she hadn't the skill to end this one with blades alone. Throwing her blades out wide, she fell backwards, down straight from the incredulous dark elf before her.

He had no intention of falling for any trick or letting her surrender. Quick as lightning, he stabbed down, intending to spear her the very moment the ground arrested her progress.

Shi'van's eyes were closed, her mad grin sublime as a skull's. Her back fell into shadows, but did not touch ground. She seemed to fall into, and be swallowed by, darkness.

Thinking it an illusion, the dark elf threw weapon care to the winds and stabbed the craggy ground. He was rewarded by sparks and clashing alone.

He was completely unaware of Shi'van completing her arc behind him. She rose up backwards from the shadows, her momentum carrying her up and about. Twisting her body around as she went, she slashed her swords left and right, severing tendons on either side of his neck.

He struggled against surprise and his wounds, but it was for naught; he could not possibly keep his head upright. The strength of his heart, unaware at first of the lethal blows, jetted life out the wound. It was Shi'van's slight body slamming into his at the end of it's ascent that knocked him down. Compelled by the last of the dance's immediate impetus, she again wove her swords around her and strode down his back. Too busy dying, he did not have it in him to complain.

Despite all the wounds, too time-consuming to count them all, despite the all-powerful geas on her, Shi'van's face continued to hold a smile. The secret refuge of the dance, the sway of music, even the fiery venom of the desert snakes, threaded together with the surrounding shadows to build her shelter. It fed life into her, despite her stubborn certainty that she was all but walking dead.

Luxuriating in the dance, feeling it still tingling throughout her body, she moved swiftly from the scene.

And suddenly felt as if a fireball exploded inside her chest.

It felt as if burning led ran through her veins instead of blood, searing her from the inside and crushing her bones, stealing her breath and filling her mind with one imperative alone – _Kill!_ At the edge of perception, she was aware of figures on the rooftops around her, crossbows no doubt trained on her back and she wondered absentmindedly why no shots pierced her exposed back just yet. The unmistakable stench of baatezu reached her nostrils and she heard claws scraping against the stone and a distant bat of huge wings as a cornugon approached her from behind. It could have been a pit fiend for all it mattered now; Shi'van's entire being was a heated spear racked with pain, glistening and pointed one direction alone – straight in front of her, as a slender figure emerged from further down the street, heading her way.

She felt her muscles twitch against her will, urging he to strike out as the figure came closer, spiked armor glistening in alluring Faerie Fire light, full lips curved in a smile, red eyes glowing in hungry amusement.

Sinvyl walked towards the dancer slowly, enjoying the sight before her. Dark skin, visible in the pale light of a distant fire, unusually dark green hair and sleek muscles jolting in forced restraint. She had hoped it would be like this, that she would get to see her appointed –she smirked at the thought- _killer_ personally, at least for a moment. She _was_ exotic by the drow standards, that was certain. She had only seen an illusion before, bar perhaps a glimpse she might have cast her way all those years ago, and the real item didn't disappoint. How beautifully ironic, she thought as her strides took her closer to the dancer, that they had met before, if only briefly and amidst a carnage, lesser in scale but no less bloody than this one. And perhaps, she mused as she observed that sleek body convulsing against the spell inside it, streaked with sweat and bathed in blood, their meeting might not have to end so quickly this time around. But of course, the female could not fight the spell indefinitely – very soon now, it would send her flying forth and into her death. And what a pity that would be... Sinvyl gave the cornugon behind the dancer a slight nod and the beast grabbed the trembling dancer by the arms firmly. Funny, Sinvyl noted, her amusement growing by the moment, the green-eyed female didn't even try to dodge; in fact, it seemed as if she almost welcomed the restraint. And why would she do that, Sinvyl wondered, her curiosity peeked even further. Well, perhaps she could ask...

Shi'van watched the drow approach her and struggled against the urge to attack. In that part of her dazed mind reserved for housing her endless bitterness, she cursed the other part, the one housing her equally endless stubbornness. To Nine Hells with it all! She never had any pride, the part of her that should have housed it long extinguished on the streets of Avenue Paradise and the desert before that. Why the hells did the zombie decide to stir now, struggling against one notion it found impossible to stand – being _forced_ to do something, regardless of her own wants.

But struggle it did. It was no strength of will, but sheer, foolish spite that held the dancer back now, fighting the spell, delaying the inevitable, prolonging the agony to the very verge of collapse. She glared at the drow female approaching her and saw amusement in her eyes. She knew that look - How well she knew it! The look for observing beats in a cage, an interesting but inconsequential detail in the tapestry of life... or a body on display, up for grabs and ready to serve, to be used and played with, in any way imaginable. She knew that look and she saw herself reflected in it.

The main crescendo reached it's peak in her chest and burst to pieces.

_Snip!_

There was a chain inside her, forged of spite and tempered in blood that connected her will and her sense of self. It was never a strong one –her sanity and herself always had a very free-minded marriage after all- but it held thus far. Not any more...

She looked at the approaching drow, almost welcoming the restraining grip that enabled her to struggle freely against the physical bonds, thus complying with the urge of the Geas without danger of actually managing to break loose. She looked at the drow, still resisting the spell, but no longer resisting the shadow that welled inside her, reasserting old instincts and nearly-forgotten routines branded into her so many years ago. And how easy they came to her again, how easily she resigned the fight and gave in to what she once tried to unlearn. Bland survival, loyalty to no one but coin and numb acceptance and a highest bidder with most to offer, she could not deny it any more. A Whore she had been and a Whore she remained, whether she sold her body for fight or pleasure. Spasming in the cornugon's grasp, she bowed her head slightly, the longer front strands of her damp hair falling across her face, and looked at Sinvyl with new eyes.

"_My, my..._" Sinvyl purred, leaning closer to the struggling dancer, "_had I known what a fine specimen you would turn into, I would have never let you out of Arach-Tinilith._" The dancer gave no response nor had she reacted in any way at the mention of the place she had, no doubt, enjoyed no more than a vacation in Hells. Interesting...

"_Tell me,_" Sinvyl went on, "_Why __do__ you struggle? After all we've shared, you and I, I would have thought you'd welcome the opportunity to strike at me._"

This time the dancer did react, but not in the way Sinvyl expected her to.

"_Strike at you?_" she croaked, her voice as strained as her muscles were. "_Why_...", she gave Sinvyl an appraising look, all too similar to the one Sinvyl had given her, "_That __would__ be a pity,_" she finished, her eyes traveling up and down Sinvyl's curves in insolent appreciation.

"_Really..._" Sinvyl murmured and leaned even closer this time. She wanted this to last at least a while longer but it was clear to her that in the next minute, the dancer would either break free and die or stay in cornugon's clutches and die. She gave the baatezu another nod and the cornugon responded in kind. Telepathically, the huge baatezu sent out a message to the one even greater than he and next second, the gigantic pit fiend materialized beside the Valsharess. She turned to him, childish expression settling over her features once more which, unfailingly, made the baatezu general laugh out loud.

"_Would you...? Please?_" the drow cooed.

_Yes._

The fiend closed it's burning eyes and concentrated. There were very few things that could counter powerful spells such as the Geas spell, even less so when compulsions were cast by wizards whose power far outmatched the prowess of most. However, once per year, pit fiends could make a single Wish and that, considering the spell's original potency and the source from which it came, _could_ erase the effects of even most potent of enchantments. The pit fiend would normally use this power for himself -surely, he would not waste it to fulfill some mortal's whim- but this time, the circumstances were different from normal. Bethurru had been ordered here by Mephistopheles himself. Should he perform his task well, and catering to Sinvyl's wishes was included in the definition of "well", he would be granted an adequate reward for his services; a promotion and all the power that accompanied the elevation in the infernal ranks would more than make up for the loss of one Wish spell.

Shi'van jerked wildly in cornugon's unyielding grasp. She trashed her head left and right, sending spit and bile flying around; claws dug into her flesh as she twisted her arms, knees bloody from numerous scrapes on the ground, her lungs about and her head about to explode and implode respectively or all at once. And then, suddenly, it all stopped. She gasped for air and slumped forth, her exhausted body going limp in the baatezu's arms.

"_And now,_" Sinvyl licked her lips slowly, "_that we got this inconvenient little thing out of the way, tell me... what would you have done had you not been under the spell? More to the point,_" she continued before the dazed dancer could begin to reply, "_What would you do now if... say... I offer you your freedom?_"

"_I would ask under what conditions, of course_," the dancer answered with a slight chuckle without pausing to think about it for a second. Sinvyl laughed.

"_Truly? Then perhaps your time among the drow... or at least those who called themselves that hadn't been a complete waste after all, yes?_"

The dancer lifted her head slightly, her eyes meeting Sinvyl's for a moment before she scoffed with obvious derision.

"_I fail to see how. Being on the losing side is always such a waste._"

"_Ah, so it is_," Sinvyl concurred. "_But do tell, why hadn't you come to my camp than? Surely, you could have proceeded there after you,_" her tone took on a slightly steely edge now, "_relieved me of my prized hunter._"

The dancer gave her an incredulous look. "_He was just a male._"

Sinvyl was about to reply, but the dancer gave her no time.

"_I have done you a favor, really;_" he dancer went on, "_If he fell to my blades then he wasn't good enough to serve you anyway. And I have proven myself a much better hunter than him._"

Behind the drow, one of her retinue gasped in surprise; no one dared to be so insolent around their powerful mistress. And yet, at that moment, Sinvyl found that insolence amusing, and almost... arousing in a way.

"_True,_" Sinvyl mused, "_but you failed to replace him afterwards._"

The dancer smiled and looked her in the eye daringly. "_We can remedy that yet, I believe._"

Sinvyl returned the look, finding the brazen, but still captive, female more interesting by the moment. "_And I should accept you in my ranks why, precisely?_" she taunted.

"_Because lines of corpses speak of my skill,_" she paused and licked her lips, "_and death is only one area of my expertise... _"

Sinvyl threw her head back and laughed. "_You truly amuse me, dancer. But,_" she made a dramatic pause, "_should I trust you? You are obviously no stranger to switching allegiances as it suits you._"

It was the whore's turn to laugh. "_Isn't that what everyone does? And besides,_" she looked around her in dismay, "_Do you honestly think I would willingly join the losing side? My allegiances,_" she looked at Sinvyl again, "_are always on the winning side._"

"_And your loyalties?_"

The whore laughed again. "_Only to myself, of course. And my best interests, and that implies the winning side again._"

Sinvyl couldn't find any fault in that reasoning; such was the way of all drow after all, and at least half of the blood that ran through this female's veins was that of a drow, even if the source of it wasn't all that complimentary. She nodded to the cornugon and the baatezu released the grip on the half-breed's arms. the woman stood up, shakily, and lifted her head again, smiling slyly and looking Sinvyl in the eye once more.

The Valsharess took a step forward and suddenly, lashed out and grabbed the woman's chin, pulling her head close to her own. "_If I take you in,_" she hissed, "_you would do well to learn your proper place._

"_In your ranks?" _the whore guessed, and then added in a husky whisper "_Or in your bed?_"

Sinvyl glared at the female for a long moment, watching for any signs of discomfort at her suddenly hard demeanor. The female lowered her eyes slightly, a sign of respect, but never quite took them off of Sinvyl's face either. Exotic, insolent, daring... Oh yes, she would have lots of fun with this one, Sinvyl decided. She loosened her grip on the female's chin and trailed her fingers across it before pulling her hand back.

"_Come then,_" she bade the female forth, "_Let us see how good a replacement hunter you are..._"

And as Sinvyl started towards the plateau, the Whore fell in step behind her, smirk on her face and darkness in her soul. Ultimately, she was a survivor; whores had always been good at it. And this time around, she was her own pimp.

**_& & &_**

"_**bridge" 4**_

Ice covered the cavern floor. Wisps of steam floated upwards near the edges of the chasm, where the cold sheen was already melting under the gusts of warm air from below. Golem bodies lay scattered across the bridge end and the paths leading into the city. Bluish ovals, once housed in the constructs' chests, giving forged iron and polished steel sentience and fueling their existence for centuries uncounted lay broken on the ground, their enchantment's fading alongside the lives they had once given. More than a dozen golems had made their stand at the bridge. Not a single one survived. Mind Flayers could not harm the constructs, their minds impervious to the ilithid attacks. Spells bounced off their gleaming bodies; the raw magical forces that would fall creatures of bone and flesh making but fleeting imprints on their massive frames. Swords, axes and clubs could not hurt them either, chips and dents was all the effect deadly weapons could have on magic-infused metal. But against the Cania's elite, they were helpless.

Claws of the Eighth Hell tore through the metal in devastating rends. The devil ice froze their joints and spread across their frames, twisting iron and steel and even adamantium plates until they snapped like so much dry wood in the gelugons' merciless grasps.

The golems were dead, but to their credit, only two out of four gelugon made it back to the city alive. One was crushed under the feet of steel; another winked out, back to it's native Plane, it's wounds too great for the creature to remain on the Prime any more. And in the dark streets that stretched from Ferron's last stand towards the docks, the feeling drow raced through golem-bought time.

_& & &_

Bathurru watched the mortal and her new pet disappear into the winding alleys of the blood-bathed city. Flames licked across his body, illuminating nearby stone structures, his infernal aura spreading in a wide circle around him. He closed his eyes and extended it even further, probing, testing, seeking… There!

The mortal had been granted her request, and now Bethurru was free to return to pursuing his own whims of the day. There was one other creature not of the mortal stock in the city; Bethurru could already taste the sweet aroma of her screams on his tongue. She hadn't uttered a single shriek thus far, but she would, soon.

With a grin promising agony of the Pit, Bethurru picked out his target and, with a bat of his huge wings, soared up.

_& & &_

Illiam skidded to a halt as she emerged from a side alley into the wider street ahead. Only a handful of clerics remained with her; others had found their deaths at either mortal or immortal hands in the attempt to reach safety. Imloth's group stopped as well, the warrior and the priestess with barely seventy drow between them all that was left of the once five hundred strong force that begun a fight many months ago.

The two leaders looked at each other, bloody, torn and winded. There was no love lost between the two; Illiam would not forget Imloth's command at the wall soon and Imloth would not forgive the priestess her stubborn refusal to accept the inevitable. But they were on the same side regardless and they and their groups were joined in a common cause. Once, that cause had been embodied in the Seer, Illiam's mentor and Imloth's one-time lover. Now, that cause was survival.

Wordlessly, the two groups merged, just several streets away from their destination; deadly streets, teeming with enemies after their blood, racing through them openly, or hiding in shadowy corners inside. They played all the cards they had to play: the group that ran this gauntlet before them took some of the enemy down with them; the golems behind their backs bought them a few moments in which to live more with their own lives as a price. And now, there was nothing else left but to pick themselves up, bring weapons to bear and, with grim determination, make one final run.

Imloth took position at the point and raised his sword up and with a swish of the blade, signaled the last charge of Lith My'athar.

**_& & &_**

_**Coda**_**:** _**"The Fallen Angels"**_

Tarnash leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. A pile of bodies trailed behind him; mortal bodies, for the fiends dissipated into nothingness, returning to their home plane when their physical forms were destroyed in this one. It was an unsettling notion, knowing that, no matter how hard they fought, they could never truly bring their enemies down.

"_Here!_" a scout announced further down the wall line. Up ahead, another enemy force lined up for the attack.

"_Kill them!_" Tarnash commanded and leapt into the fight himself. _"Open it,"_ he hissed at the scout over the shoulder as he ran. He couldn't allow the enemy to mark their escape route and live. But the route had to be opened. Now!

Clashing steel rang out again, as two groups collided. Wide sweeps, feints and grunts came from all sides, geysers of spells and blood spraying through the air. One last fight, to end it all.

_& & &_

Imloth raced through the combat zone, sending his opponents sprawling on the floor. His two swords, now combined in a single, double-bladed one, flashed through the air and, much more often, through drow and duergar flesh. He fought and pressed onwards, leading his group towards the wall and the escape route but a hundred feet away.

Clerics chanted behind him, sending last spells they had up the roofs and into the dark recesses around them, desperate to locate those enemies that preferred stealth and ambush to open combat. With a gurgle, one of the clerics announced she had found the enemy she had been looking for, but not in the way she had intended to. As a shadowy attacker danced circles around her, making shallow gashes and vicious cuts, taking small chunks of skin and muscle off and sending them flying, Imloth couldn't help but notice something about the assailant seemed strangely familiar.

As the cleric fell down in a bloody, mutilated heap, while the rest of the group already took flight, there was no surprise in Imloth's heart at the sight he had just witnessed. Sadness, perhaps, and a bit of disappointment. And lots and lots of cold boiling anger.

_& & &_

Switching views frantically between disassembled golems, the corpse-covered plateau, bloodied streets and, perhaps, a glimpse of a tail disappearing around the corner in pursuit of yet another baatezu, Deekin gulped audibly and looked around him in near-panic. He was alone. Suddenly, he was terribly, completely alone. With no one to turn to and nothing left for him to do, the kobold brought up his globe and, with a force none would expect existed in his tiny frame, slammed the thing hard on the floor, shattering it. And then, he did the only thing left for him to do. He grabbed his papers and stuffed them into his rucksack, grabbed his crossbow in one hand, grabbed the Mirror from the table and tucked it beneath the other… and ran for it.

_& & &_

Lavoera dived. She soared through the cavern propelled by wings and spells alike. The battle was lost. There was nothing she could do any more but getting out of there and perhaps, try reaching what survivors there were.

_& & &_

Tarnash rushed to the opening, and ushered his troops through. He looked about him, trying to get a glimpse of Ran'ree in the scrambling chaos. It was time…

_& & &_

Lavoera veered around the stalactites, shedding feathers about her and tried to avoid the areas that reeked of inferno most vile. Cornugon were in the air, at least one gelugon spread it's ice in the higher areas of the cavern. And the pit fiend…

_& & &_

Imloth ran between the stalagmites that marked the escape route but stopped for a moment before entering the tunnels beyond. Was he just making sure that his entire group indeed made it through or did he wish to say one final goodbye, he wasn't sure. But he gripped the stalagmite with a bloodied hand and looked behind him one last time.

_& & &_

She shuddered as the stench of Hells assaulted her senses from somewhere nearby and slapped the air hard with her wings, launching herself forward with an added strength and speed.

_& & &_

The wizard fell into a crouch beside his leader, breathing hard. His spells were almost completely depleted, but he had the strength for just one more. Tarnash gave a nod. Steadying his gasps, the wizard begun muttering the final farewell spell…

_& & &_

The stench of Baator came closer as the celestial flew on, and with a jerk, the angel suddenly realized that the fallen one was…

…behind her.

_& & &_

BOOOOOM!

"_AAAAAAAAAARGH!!_"

The explosion shook the walls of Lith My'athar as dozens upon dozens of stashed supplies exploded simultaneously, sending streaks of acid, fire and body pieces of all that stood nearby into the air.

A shriek of an angel rattled the cavern of the city, sending several stalactites flying down as the claw of a pit fiend impaled her from behind, mixing her celestial blood with the hellish inferno of death.

And in a thundering explosion and an the fallen angels' screams, Lith My'athar finally fell down.

**_& & & & &  
_**

Although Sinvyl briefly entertained the idea of animating the Seer's corpse and making it march with her troops, she gave up on it, figuring that those who were close to the dead priestess would be long dead themselves by the time her forces reached Skullport. Instead, she merely had the body brought up and crucified above the temple doors, as a victory monument of sorts.

The Seer died by Nathyrra's blade swiftly, but in those final moments of her life, she finally saw the truth of the prophecy her goddess had granted her nearly a year ago. _The shadowdancer shall save the rebels of Lith My'athar._ And, in a way, the shadowdancer _did_. But the prophecy was never about the Seer and her troops.

There was ever only one true group of rebels in Lith My'athar and that group _did_ escape to safety. The true rebels, rising against the house to which both them and this city once belonged – The rebels of Lith My'athar: the followers of the Masked God.


	34. A Hunt Through The Dark

**Author's Note: **I honestly, honestly wasn't about to upload any more at first. However, thanks to some people who offered an e-shoulder to whine on and have sent me the most warm and supportive emails over the past two weeks, I decided to finish this after all. Though no longer that pissed off, I still feel rather pissed on due to the last chapter's review fiasco...

What reviews there were, they are answered on the forum. Some of them also sparked some interesting discussions, writing-wise and characterization-wise. Feel free to drop by and toss your two cents into the mix... if you can be bugged to do so.

Big thanks to Lieden who edited this chapter.

Lastly, this chapter's title is me paying omage to one of my favorite modules from NWN1 - A Hunt Through The Dark by Marcus "Wayne" Schlegel. I had wonderful time playing the first five parts and hell of a time playtesting the sixth. ;) Hats down, it was one of the best drow-themed things I've played. If you still have that game installed, I reccomend you try it out; if not... I am still hoping the mods will see a NWN2 makeover someday.

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 21 **

**A Hunt Through The Dark**

"_There is something wrong with me  
There is something wrong with you  
There is nothing left of us  
There is one thing I can do"_

_("This Is My Life," Megadeth)_

If asked, an average surface dweller would readily reply that his –or her- world exists in three dimensions of length, height and depth. This, however, is not true. While those who dwell in the Night Above claim to live in three dimensions, the significance of all three is, most of the time, lost to them. One needs to descend to the lightless pits of the Night Below in order to truly comprehend the meaning, and significance, of a three-dimensional world.

In Underdark, the directions of up and down are equally important as, for example, left or right or in front and behind. There is no measure such as "as the crow flies" inside the deep caverns of the Night Below… unless said crow suddenly developed the ability to fly through the countless sediment layers of various rocks, minerals, and raw, impenetrable ores that form miles upon miles of walls between passages and caverns they connect. There is, however, a number of measures and directions down there that, to a surface dweller, are as mysterious as migrational patterns of the darghazar. There are directions such as "westwards" or "east from here", but there is also an added "beneath" or "above" part which had cost the surface map-makers many a sleepless night thus far as they tried to somehow translate a truly three-dimensional world onto mere two-dimensions of ink-stained paper.

For instance, Skullport, The Port of Shadows, lies slightly to the north-east of the outpost city of Lith My'athar, but not merely north-east, but _up­-_north-east of it. The cavern that houses the small city opens into a larger section of caverns to the west which then, through a series of tunnels -some several miles wide, some no longer than ten feet across- lead in all eleven, of the possible twelve Underdark directions: in more or less same ground level as the city - north, west and south, the passage to the east ending in Lith My'athar, up-north, up-south, up-east and up-west, with the last one starting only after one first treaded several miles to the down-south first, and to the down-south, down-north, down-east and down-west, the last one leading to the down-south first until it reached the junction after the Dark River bended to the down-north first.

To the north of Lith My'athar and along the greater portion of the large western cavern beyond it as well, the thick layers of granite and crystal block the passage to the north. One has to enter the large cavern and follow its northern edge for a few miles before one reaches the first passages leading northwards. From there, a series of caverns going straight to the north and up-north eventually reach an upper section of the crystal/granitesediment layer and only then, the passages open up to the east. Following that track, one would eventually be able to reach Skullport, many winding miles up and to the north and east ahead.

The track the Valsharess' army -both the advanced scouts and the main bulk of her forces- followed started off from the deep north west, still in the Upperdark, but deeper than the level of Lith My'athar, and went into the upper reaches of the trade tunnels that connected to Skullport. The deployment currently in Lith My'athar would, with several exceptions, had to follow the trail along the northern wall first and then wind in a semi-spiral around the granite/crystal before resuming their march on Skullport again.

The rock formations to the north of Lith My'athar were thick and impenetrable to both normal and magical means of travel alike. However, if one descended _down_ first, one could, eventually, go _under_ the sediment and end up several miles directly beneath the upper north-east track. From there, several narrow, hard-to-find, and extremely steep climbs connected the trail below with the trail above. The army that made a pause in Lith My'athar could not use these tunnels efficiently, due to the army's size as well as lack of knowledge needed to navigate most of the trails. Several small, desperate groups however, moving swiftly and with knowledge, could pass through them and eventually, emerge at the upper north/north-east junction, from which Skullport could be reached, one or two weeks ahead of the marching army.

It was that series of narrow, zigzagging and intertwining passages, full of deep drops, dangerous wild magic zones and lava streams that was the only hope of escape to the scattered remnants of the former defenders of Lith My'athar.

It was easy to get lost in the passages that looked like calcified bellies of a bundle of mating snakes that begun devouring each other half-way through the act. Sooner or later, everyone lost within them becomes a prey. And the hunt was on.

_**& & &  
**_

_**Rites of Passage**_

They ran through the tunnel until they ran out of breath. When they started out of Lith My'athar less then two weeks ago, there were about thirty of them. There were six of them now. Up until recently, there were nine.

They slumped against the rock, panting for breath. They weren't looking at each other. There would be no point in that. Everyone knew what they had just done. Everyone knew they would do it again if a need be. Wild Underdark was an unforgiving habitat; the weak and the unfortunate had no place in it.

"_Let's go,_" the dwarf breathed and heaved himself up on his feet. The half-orc grunted and rose up. The other four, three men and one woman, staggered to their feet in silence. The dwarf already started down the tunnel ahead.

One by one, they fell in line behind him, the half-orc bringing up the rear. An hour ago, there were two rear guards in their group. And another two people walking in the middle. All three of them, a dwarf, a half-elf female and another human male were now gone, lying in their own blood and entrails on the cavern floor behind them. Presumably, the Displacer Beast that had ambushed them there was already dining on their still warm bodies. The monstrous six-legged panthers were vicious predators that often killed not solely for food but for the sheer taste of blood on their fangs. With any luck, this one was hungry enough to settle for just those three instead of hunting the rest of them down. The half-elf still screamed when they started running. And they started running as soon as they could. They _did_ put up a fight first, of course, but…

They did not dwell on the "but". They were way past the point of feeling any shame for their actions in the cavern. Shame, morality and selfless sacrifice were the concepts of the surface world. Down here, there was only survival. Of the fittest. Or the fastest. Or both. They didn't dwell on that either when several days later one of the humans collapsed with exhaustion. They didn't even think about it when the half-orc brought his rusty axe down on the dying human's head. Nor did they say a word when the other three humans begun methodically removing chunks of flesh from their dead kinsman's bones and charring them on the scarce flames, nor when all five of them begun sinking their teeth into the half-raw remains.

There was no place for weakness or mercy in the wilds of the Underdark. Only survival. And hunters and their prey.

_& & &  
_

The human leaned closer to the lichen-covered wall. The strange growth did not radiate heat but did cast a pale bluish glow – not much, but just enough to make out the traces of ink on the parchment if one brought it close to the lichen and squinted hard.

"_What's the matter?_"

The human nearly jumped out of his skin as the voice came not two steps away from where he stood. He spun around, grasping the hilt of his blade purely on instinct. The hobbit jumped away as the human brought his blade low before even realizing what he was doing. Underdark did that to people, the hobbit noted sourly: it put them on the edge. Either that, or it put the edge _in_ them.

"_Don't! …do that,_" the human breathed sharply.

The hobbit scoffed. "_Well…? What's the matter, then?_" he asked, his eyes trained on the human's blade. The human gritted his teeth and put the weapon away. He was painfully aware of his violent responses lately. The Underdark was changing him, he knew, and not for the better. He wasn't happy about that. At all. He looked at the hobbit again and waved the map he held in his hand.

"_This,_" he said, stepping closer to the lichen and beckoning the hobbit to follow suit. "_If I'm reading this right, we should be here,_" he pointed at the part of the map showing a cross-tunnel section they were presumably in. He trailed a finger along one of the lines representing a tunnel leading up and to the east: "_And we should be going up here._"

The hobbit nodded. If they followed the route the human indicated, their group of two dozen or so should reach the svirfneblin outpost in less than a tenday. "_And that is where we're going now,_" he said, not understanding what the human's problem was.

The human looked at him and then back towards the small cavern their group currently rested in. Five svirfneblin were among them. He had been told that the Seer had contacted the deep gnomes' community months ago and that his group would be expected and welcomed there. True to their word, the deep gnomes sent out a scouting party to find them and help them to safety. However…

Something about the arrangement bothered the human lately. He tapped a finger on the map and lowered his voice. "_I am not entirely certain, but this is roughly the spot where we met those gnomes, right?_"

The hobbit cocked his head and studied the map for a while. Orientation was not his forte; this deep under ground even less so. But this human did some traveling in his days and was fairly versed in reading all sorts of maps so the hobbit was willing to defer to his judgment. He squinted at the blurry ink lines again and nodded slowly. "_About right, I think._"

"_Well,_" the human went on, "_According to this the gnomes could have came from either here,_" he poked the map, "_here, or here._"

The hobbit blinked. "_And…?_"

"_And,_" the human threw another glance the cavern's way, "_none of those passages connect to their outpost,_" he finished ominously. It took him several days to work it out, but he was fairly certain he was right.

The hobbit followed his gaze and then blinked at the map again. Yellow parchment, shredded at the edges, old lines of pale fluorescent ink smudged and blurry…

"_The map is old,_" he offered at length. "_And you are growing more paranoid by the hour,_" he added, nodding at the blade that once again rested on the human's belt. "_Stop fussing about it,_" he finished and walked away.

The human looked at his companion's departing back, then at the map and then at his blade again. He sighed. Perhaps the hobbit was right. Perhaps he _was_ being overly paranoid after all. He looked at his belt and smirked bitterly. The Underdark was definitely getting to him big time. He shook his head and followed the hobbit back into the cave.

It was a day later, when they were crammed in a tight, lightless passage and the first scream erupted that he realized he should have trusted his paranoia more. He snatched his blade and spun about, just in time to see the five svirfneblin -two at the rear, two at the point and one in the middle- attack simultaneously. Five people fell instantly, caught off-guard and by the surprise attack. Growling, the human charged ahead. And died.

Five svirfneblin shed their disguise as one, revealing their true forms to the chorus of horrified screams. And bore down on their prey with infernal glee. Against five svirfneblin, the group might have had a chance; against five abishai, not so. The hobbit cursed himself loudly for not taking the human's warning more seriously back in the cave but knew it was too late to remedy the mistake. And then he died as well.

He chose to dismiss his doubts in favor of hope – hope that they were finally reaching safety and that they would leave this hell at last. But there was no place for hope in Underdark. In Underdark, one could be either hopeful or alive. But never both.

_& & &  
_

The kobolds shuffled uneasily, dozens of red-glowing eyes peering suspiciously into the gloom. Cave-dwellers that they were, they were still not comfortable this deep down. They huddled together hissing quietly. Those who had weapons clutched them tightly as they stood at the edges of the group, protecting the weaker ones in the middle.

A large kobold at the front motioned for the group to stop. Although they originally came from four different corners of the world, the small reptilians formed an impromptu tribe now, recognizing the large blue-scaled one as their chieftain by mutual consent rather than trial by combat as was usual. They had more than plenty of enemies around them to fight amongst themselves as well.

The leader sniffed the air and brought his twin hatchets up. Cautiously, he peered around the bend and the slightly sloping passage beyond. Hundred or so feet ahead, the tunnel opened up into a cavern. The soft glow emanating from it signified at least some growth was present. More importantly, it signified the presence of a water source within. The chieftain motioned for four nearby warriors to follow him and moved ahead.

The rest of the tribe waited behind. Hungry and tired, they were looking forward to some rest should the cavern prove safe and defendable enough. For a long while, no sounds came from the tunnel ahead. Usually, by that time the kobolds would be quietly chattering amongst themselves, but this group didn't. Not only were they cautioned against it – most of them had no tongues to speak with in the first place.

More time passed, the only sounds breaking the perpetual silence: the shuffling of small, clawed feet on the stone as the kobolds grew more anxious at their leader's prolonged absence. Finally, after almost an hour of waiting, the chieftain and his guards returned, proclaiming the cavern safe. With sighs of relief, the tribe moved forth.

The cavern wasn't big but it was still roomy enough to admit the kobolds. Sharp stalagmites sprouted from the floor at odd angles covered in fluorescent lichen. Mushrooms of various sizes grew at their bases and along the cavern walls. At the far end, a huge stalactite almost touched the ground. Every few minutes, a drop of water slid down its length. Centuries of dripping formed a shallow recess beneath it, a small pool of precious water, its surface splashing in circles whenever another drop fell in.

Moving cautiously, the tribe stepped inside. Gathering everybody by a wall-like stalagmite structure in the middle, the chieftain waved to the warriors to fan out and take posts near the entrance and on several flat-top stalagmites nearby. The warriors nodded and moved to obey.

And then the first 'mushroom' moved…

_**& & &  
**_

_**Running The Gauntlet**_

The scout crouched behind a stalactite mound, shielding his eyes from the incessant glow of lava streaming several feet below the path level. He looked around and above him, trying to see if there was any other path available, anything that would allow his group to avoid the heated corridor and, further ahead, the precarious walkway bridging the widening stream of molten rock.

Heat was bad in this region. Not only did it make the already stale air even heavier, causing his lungs to burn with every few breaths he took, it also made the scout sweat profoundly, sending uncomfortable streaks of warm fluid down his back, salty excretion stinging his eyes and leaving his palms dangerously wet. But above all, it made his entire body heat up much more than he was comfortable with.

The creatures of the Underdark that relied on their vision alongside hearing and/or sense of smell viewed the world around them in a palette of colors ranging from dark blue to bright red and sometimes even yellow. Colors varied according to the amount of heat the object observed emanated. The coldest rocks appeared dark blue, almost black in the heat-sensing spectrum. Living creatures, as a rule, appeared in various shades of red. A heated body against the cold rock, even if it stood _behind_ said rock, would be as obvious to heat-sensing eyes as a paladin in the Abyss. And, usually, would last about as long.

He cautiously moved further ahead, peered around the bend and cursed. Steam rose from the floor of the tunnel ahead. That meant more treacherous footing, lowered visibility and more heat and moisture than was merciful, even by the low standards for mercy the Underdark dwellers had. The scout sighed and pulled back. If the other scout didn't find a more convenient route, he would have to get a cleric to accompany him here. A Gust of Wind just might clear some of the steam away – if not enough to pass through the corridor all at once, than at least enough so that he could scout further into it and see if the track was even worth it.

_& & &  
_

A grey-furred beast went down in a heap. Its remaining companions growled and attacked the drow with renewed ferocity. Normally, they wouldn't be a challenge for the better-equipped and better-trained combatants, but there were plenty of them, and the drow they fought were exhausted.

Mainly humanoid, the monsters known as grimlocks appeared as a crossbreed between and orc and a yeti; big, with thick fur, protruding tusks, not overly bright and armed with either heavy clubs or their own claws. But they were skilled Underdark hunters and they were ferocious. The three drow that faced them didn't like the five-on-one odds all that much. One hunting pack was nothing the seasoned fighters couldn't handle with only few bruises and scratches to show for it. Still, they were far more weary of the beasts than their confident demeanor seemed to suggest.

When they first spotted a grimlock hunting pack up ahead, none of them appeared overly worried. The beasts usually knew who and what to stay away from. At the worst, their advance through the pack's current hunting ground would be marked by a few growls and a warning club swing from a safe distance. But instead of acting sensibly, this pack attacked the drow the moment they caught their smell.

Grimlocks were hunters. That meant they were adept in telling potential prey from potential death. The fact they attacked the scouting trio clearly put the drow in the 'prey' category. The implications thereof were not something either the male warrior, the female tracker or the marksman behind them fancied overmuch.

"_Let's get out of here,_" the marksman suggested, planting a bolt in one beast's face, causing it to stumble into the path of another. He was taking careful aims and firing only when he had a sure target and the potential for causing the most damage. Crossbow bolts were in short supply lately.

The two combatants exchanged glances while launching simultaneous side attacks at the oncoming beasts.

"_What, and have these pests…_" the female sneered, whirling her flail around, catching one grimlock in the ribs, "…_chew my butt off while we run?_" she finished, splitting another's belly open with her shortsword aiming low.

"_That would be a pity,_" the male chuckled and dodged a claw-claw-headbuttt routine coming his way. The female snorted and ducked, sending her flail straight ahead, aiming for the next monster's kneecap.

A stream of purplish missiles suddenly burst from somewhere behind them, zipping past the drow and finding grimlock chests with unerring accuracy. No sooner then the first volley got discharged, a second one followed, striking the same three targets again. Behind the missiles, five drow charged between the male and the female. The female rolled to a side and grinned. "_Took you long enough,_" she murmured at the quick-passing figures.

Grimlock pack turned its attention to the newcomers, teeth and claw at the ready. The first creature attacked blindly, its claw merely nicking the incoming drow's flank, but no sooner than the claw connected, the charging drow dissipated into nothingness. The monster took a step back. It furrowed its bushy brows and slowly, raised its claw to its face, staring at it as if it were about to explode. A fast-flying flail slammed into the back of its skull and sent the beast sprawling onto the ground. On the other side, another drow got dissolved into thin air, but not before scoring several fast-launched gashes on two grimlock's surrounding it. The beasts at the back grew increasingly baffled by this new, real-yet-not-real attacker that stormed into their ranks. The male fighter swept his double-handed sword in a downward slash, taking one of the beasts down, then fell to one knee, absorbing the energy of the strike and directing it into the next one that brought the blade above his head and through the other beast's guts. Another bolt stabbed into the monstrous chest with such force only the edge of the shaft remained visible outside. "_Vith, how am I going to get that one out?_" the marksman cursed softly drawing a snicker from his companions.

Between the original trio and the newcomer(s), the last of the remaining grimlocks soon fell down, leaving two plus three drow panting amidst the carnage and one perching and cursing behind. The female wiped her sword clean on one of the beasts beneath her feet and grinned, waving a hand through one of the strangely similar-looking drow before her.

"_Cut it out, Vic'qualin. One of you's one more than I can stand._"

The warrior-wizard chuckled and snapped his fingers. Two Mirror Images disappeared. "_You've yet to have even one of me, Zyne,_" he teased, sizing the female up and down.

The other male looked around him bemusedly. "_You think these things are edible?_"

The female snorted. When they ran into the escape routes, more than a week ago, they grabbed all the supplies laid out in the tunnels in advance. But the supplies would only see them through so far. Water could be found in the caverns, maybe about as plentiful as the water found in the deserts of the Night Above, but they wouldn't run out of it any time soon. Food however, _any_ food, would soon become a luxury. She paused for a moment, judging whether their bellies were yet desperate enough to try and brave grimlock meat and scoffed in disgust.

"_Only if the wonder-boy here has a trick up his sleeve to cook 'em right,_" she said, pointing at Vic'qualin with her thumb. The warrior-wizard spread his arms wide in a gesture of surrender and, chuckling, shook his head.

"_That's wizards for you,_" the marksman grumbled, pushing past the female and crouching down. He pulled out a dagger and begun digging through grimlock chest, trying to retrieve his bolt. "_They've three hundred ways and one to fry them and not one to cook 'em,_" he grunted and then spat as he realized the bolt got itself imbedded into the bone.

The fighter smirked and, without warning, brought his double-handed sword up and then slammed it down, barely an inch away from the startled marksman's nose. The bones snapped loudly, sending a geyser of mucked-up lungs and blood into the marksman's face. The marksman blinked. The grimlock rib was cut neatly in two, the bolt sinking into the bloodied mess that used to be grimllock's chest cavity.

"_There you go,_" the fighter smiled widely and turned his back to the marksman thus missing out on the obscene gesture the lungs-stained marksman made his way. Zyne rolled her eyes. "_Males…_" She shook her head and started away.

"…_Know how to have fun,_" Vic'qualin grinned, falling in step beside her. "_You could use a lesson or two in that department, you know._"

Zyne sneered and flipped him a middle finger. Vic'qualin snickered. "_Yes, that was exactly what I had in mind._"

Behind them, the fighter's shoulders shook with barely suppressed laughter, whether at the exchange or at the unloaded crossbow the marksman proceeded to slam against his head, but stopped just short of actually hitting him.

"_Males…_" Zyne muttered again and shook her head in resignation. It was going to be a looong trek to Skullport.

_**& & &  
**_

Deekin sat up and shook his head groggily. He still wasn't sure where he was. A week ago, he had grabbed the Mirror and ran for it. The moment he reached an escape tunnel, he teleported out. The problem was, he had no idea where to. Just like his escape from the falling Netherese fortress, he mused as he wrinkled his snout and sneezed loudly. A small flame followed by a puff of smoke shot out of his nostrils. It tickled. He sneezed again.

A body lay at the little kobold's feet. Several more were sprawled across the floor. They were small, although still taller and bulkier than the sneezing kobold – hunchbacked yet humanoid in shape, with pale skin, long arms, thick black manes and canine-like ears. Deekin recognized them as Gibberlings, crazed pack hunters always after anything that seemed even remotely edible. This pack had learned the hard way that one certain kobold was a tougher snack than they had expected.

"_The creepy creatures descended on the lone, defenseless kobold thinking he be lunch,_" Deekin muttered under his breath, trying to suppress another sneeze. "_But the brave kobold…_" He paused his muttering. Somehow, "the brave kobold hiccupped at them" didn't quite cut it, although it pretty accurately summed up exactly what happened. His muzzle was still itchy from the lichen he ate earlier and he was alternatively sneezing and hiccupping his way through the tunnels when the gibberling pack attacked him. He whacked the first one over the head with his lute and was just about to start a spell when another violent sneeze made his snout wrinkle. Before he knew it, a ball of flame engulfed the would-be diners and the rest was, as they say, history. He glanced briefly at the splatter around him. Well, make that geography, he decided at length.

Carefully stepping around the corpse at his feet, Deekin made his way to a nearby elevation, sat down and brought his pen and papers out. He nibbled at the pen thoughtfully for a while, trying to figure out how to continue the sentence he had started. His eyes scanned the page before him; sometimes re-reading what he already wrote helped the inspiration kick in.

"…_and then Deekin be… somewhere,_" the first sentence greeted him brightly. "_And the somewhere be dark and damp and smells like old shoes. Maybe it be called Somewheredark?_" Well, that sounded about right. He skimmed through the rest of the page.

"_Teleporting not be good thing, Deekin learns. Too much magic rock. Walls not look nice up close._"

He rubbed his forehead absentmindedly as he read the passage. Teleporting was indeed perilous in this section of the Underdark. Pockets of wild magic and dead magic zones saw to that. A teleport attempt was as likely to bring one hundreds of feet _above_ the desired location as it was to bring one straight _into_ the desired location. And neither option was too desirable. It was only through sheer luck he had ended up with his face slammed _at_ the wall and not _into_ it that day. He decided to drop teleporting attempts until he reached a more magic-stable section right then and there; five days later, the bump on his head still hurt mightily.

"_Deekin sees devils in the Mirror. They be looking like Deekin but they be not as nice. And Deekin's underpants not be as clean any more now._"

He frowned at the sentence. Well, it _was_ true, he mused, but not very heroic-sounding. He would have to rewrite that part later.

He read on through the vicious jellies bit, pondering if 'viscous' might be a better word, regarded the attempt of retracing his steps (ending in an embarrassing tumble down the ledge and a near-fried kobold in the lava pits below) and eventually scratched out the dragon encounter figuring it a bit too big a detail for a mere artistic freedom. He had enough real things to deal with as it were; dragons, on the whole, could wait for another book he decided.

A paper fell out of the bundle and landed at his feet. He quickly picked it up and tucked it away. It was a draft of a poem. A love poem. He wasn't in the mood to revise it right then. Last evening, he managed to catch a glimpse of the kobold tribe as they entered the fungi cavern. He only caught a glimpse of the mushrooms closing in before the image winked out, but he did see a certain grey-scaled female clearly. He made a mental note that, if she had survived and if he ever got to see her again, a mushroom bouquet was definitely off the courting items list.

Eventually, he decided to write in the hiccupping bit after all. It wasn't heroic, but it would do for now. His sneezing finally under control, the kobold jumped down from his perch and, wrapping the Mirror more securely in a spare pair of underpants, started down the tunnel once more. Wherever he was, he was fairly certain he was at least in the right section of the Underdark. He made it his point to commit to memory all the maps he had seen at the temple over the last couple of months. That knowledge might yet prove useful to him. Perhaps, he mused, he would emerge into a section more familiar to him sometime tomorrow.

He walked on in _relative_ silence. Humming the Doom song under his breath was not the most quiet of enterprises the kobold knew, but hardly cared. He wondered, and not for the first time, whatever became of Boss.

_**& & &  
**_

Kimmuriel glared at the female's back balefully. Yasvyrae… One of the top three Red Sisters and –he stopped himself from scoffing loudly- the _co-leader_ of his band. How he hated her guts! He always had, but in the past week, she became a serious runner-up for the first place on his private "creatures-to-loathe" list.

Lith My'athar fell. The gleeful report arrived almost instantly, causing the Red Sisters in his ranks to grin in delight. Well, of course the city fell – he had counted on it happening all along. But not so quickly. He scolded himself for the thousandth time for not learning about the additional secret routes in time. He would have gladly sold the information to the Seer had he had it. A good part of his scheme relied on Lith My'athar to hold Sinvyl off for a while. With the city falling in less than a day, he was now forced to march his band to Skullport at full speed, thus denying him the opportunity to gather more information and lay down the groundwork for their arrival properly.

But now Yasvyrae wouldn't let him out of her sight. Eager to reach the Port of Shadows, the female pressed on, pushing their scouting parties to the limit. _Mixed_ scouting parties, the psionic reminded himself sourly. She wouldn't allow a party comprised solely of original Bregan D'Aerthe members out in the tunnels now. She feared treachery, and rightly so. But she took steps to prevent it, leaving the distressed psionic only few avenues down which he could go.

On cue, the female turned and regarded him over her shoulder, smiling slyly. _You should be happy to reach Skullport soon,_ she signaled to him._ Perhaps if we arrive early, we could catch some time together before the Valsharess arrives. …Alone, _she added suggestively and it took all of Kimmuriels considerable willpower to stop himself from wincing in disgust. Why, he wondered, on top of everything else, the damnable female had to decide him a fine catch for her bed? Even if he were a mere male, he was powerful enough to forestall her advances for now. But he couldn't do so indefinitely, he knew. One of these days, a "no" would be a lethal answer to give. Probably the very day they set foot in Skullport, he decided sourly. He would either have to come up with a way to deal with it beforehand or he would have to make sure one of them didn't reach the city at all. He had no intentions of being the female's prey so that left the later option the only viable one. And he had every intention of getting into the city himself, which then meant…

His face expressionless, revealing nothing of the turmoil within, the psionic regarded the female for a moment before bringing his hands up in reply. _Only after we see that the Valsharess's orders are carried out fully._

Yasvyrae nodded. "_Of course,_" she murmured. _And where are you going?_ She signaled quickly, seeing the psionic turning to leave.

He looked at her coldly. _To see to the business of Bregan D'Aerthe._

Yasvyrae narrowed her eyes dangerously. _The business of Bregan D'Aerthe is my business as well._

The psionic's expression didn't change. _It is the lieutenants that report to the leader, not the other way around._

The female spun about to face him fully, hand placed on the handle of her whip in a snap. _Have you forgotten you are no longer the sole leader of the band?_ she signaled with the other hand and took a threatening step forward. _The Valsharess herself appointed me the co-leader of Bregan D'Aerthe._ She grasped the whip handle tightly and kept approaching him. _Do you contest the will of our mistress, male? _she signaled with a hiss.

Kimmuriel smirked coolly. _No. But you are still a lieutenant for now._

The female stopped in her tracks, momentarily taken aback by the seemingly contradictory response the psionic gave her. Kimmuriel took advantage of her pause and strode up to her quickly, before she had the chance to decide what to do next.

_You spent many months with us and yet, you know only a small portion of the works of Bregan D'Aerthe,_ he signed as he closed the distance between them. _The band's role is crucial to this part of the Valsharess's plans; I would not see them fail_, he lied blatantly, certain that his lie cannot possibly be discerned by any creature not possessed of psionic powers, _just because you don't yet posses the experience needed to coordinate the band properly._

Yasvyrae's nostrils flared at what had surely been an insult. With a snap of her wrist, she uncoiled the whip and cracked it loudly on the floor. But the psionic seemed unperturbed by the display. Moreover, he kept closing in until he stood but an inch away from her and brought his hand up.

"_Something we can remedy fully once we reach Skullport,_" the psionic murmured with a sly smile and traced a hand down the stunned Yasvyrae's cheek. "_We should have enough time for some private sessions._" He smiled suggestively and stepped away. _And then we can lead Bregan D'Aerthe together to even greater glories,_ he finished with a sly wink and bowed once before turning around and walking away.

The female stared at his back as he walked on -he could feel her gaze boring right between his shoulderblades- but with this first-ever display of interest on his part, he was confident he had her pacified for now. He kept his pace slow and steady, all the while fighting an impulse to wipe his hand clean on his shirt.

He smirked sourly as he rounded the bend. There was no doubt in his mind how Jarlaxle would have handled this particular encounter… and beyond doubt turn it into yet another advantage along the way. Kimmuriel, however, had no intentions of dealing with things in that fashion, even if he _did_ lead a band named D'Aerthe. No, the only thing he intended to do with Yasvyrae alone was to drive a mind-blade through her skull.

He couldn't do it yet, though. Sinvyl was just waiting for an excuse to put him out of the picture and she would no doubt blame him for Yasvyrae's death regardless of whether he had anything to do with it or not. He could not allow Yasvyrae to perish in these tunnels, for his own sake. But once they're all in Skullport… Well, that would be another matter entirely. Not even Sinvyl could blame him if her prized assassin perished during the decisive battle, right?

The battle the psionic would prefer Sinvyl lost. He could remain in her good graces for a while if she won, but not for too long. So he would have to find a way to turn the tide of the battle against her, without openly implicating himself or his band in the treachery. And that was exactly what he was about to do.

A snap of his fingers brought the portal up and Kimmuriel stepped into the narrow tunnel beyond. One of the scouting parties was in this section and was awaiting his arrival. A pack of minotaurs was reported roaming nearby. One of Kimmuriel's wizards already approached them with a deal.

The plan was simple. On his signal, he and his scouts would slay the "new members" in the group as violently as they could. Then, they would substitute his own scouts with the polymorphed corpses of slaves Kimmuriel had secured from Menzoberranzan beforehand and then, several minotaurs would come in and stomp the dead bodies into proper-looking pulp. With a few more details his trackers would add, the mock battlefield would appear genuine and the minotaurs would be labeled the sole culprits of the attack. Just to cover for every eventuality, Kimmuriel himself would wipe the beasts' minds clean of all memories of their deal with the drow afterwards.

After that, his scouts would be free to join the two other, similarly "liberated" groups and head for Skullport ahead of the main Bregan D'Aerthe force to establish contacts, give the Skullport defenders fresh information and arrange for the band's… 'intruders' untimely demise.

Kimmuriel grinned to himself. The plan was simple. For a given value of simple, that is. Jarlaxle would probably laugh his ass off.

_**& & &  
**_

In retrospect, it was probably inevitable. The tunnels running beneath the crystalline granite north of Lith My'athar intersected at various points and they all emerged into the upper north-east junction close to one another. Even if they did enter them from the opposite sides, one group navigating the heated lava-crossed terrain and the other taking to the monster-infested passages some way up, both groups were headed in the same general direction. It was only a matter of time before their scouting parties met.

And now, Imloth and Tarnash glared at each other over drawn blades. The tips of their weapons were pointed down, but that meant nothing. Their respective parties eyed each other with as much hostility as their leaders had. Tarnash's group was more numerous, more than fifty strong and with several accomplished wizards and bards in their ranks. They were, however, much more bruised than Imloth's group. Fewer in numbers, Imloth's group had all the surviving clerics with them so food, water and wounds were not such a big problem to them. Still, over two weeks of wild Underdark left both groups in a battered state. If their leaders decided to lock horns, both groups would likely end up dead as a result.

Illiam stood some way behind and steamed silently. The members of her group were so used to following Imloth's lead that they kept doing so out of sheer habit. They had followed the Seer before that, but with her death, it was illiam who should have rightfully inherited the command. Well, not command, she corrected herself, but _leadership__._ She wasn't stupid – of course she would have Imloth take the lead either way; he was much more versed in traveling the Wilds than she. But that wasn't the point. The point was, he was recognized the leader by an unspoken sentiment from day one while Illiam kept being regarded as second in command, just as she was before the Seer fell. The arrangement worked, obviously – they lost only one or two fighters during the entire track, but still... Illiam was _not_ happy about it. While she fully acknowledged the commander's ability to keep them all alive, he simply couldn't provide the spiritual leadership as well. That role fell to the priestesses, first the Seer and now, with her death, to Illiam.

And so she remained silent, biding her time and waiting for an opportunity to reassert her role as the leader, or at least, the spiritual leader that she should be. In other circumstances, this face-off between the two weapon masters might have been just the opportunity she had been waiting for, but looking at the faces around her, the priestess knew beyond doubt that, should Imloth call for a charge, the troops would follow his order, no matter what she might have to say about it.

Grinding her teeth angrily, she wasn't even aware of the presence beside her until she heard the quiet voice of Ran'ree not two steps away from where she stood.

"_I hardly expected one as old to be quite as reckless,_" the wizard noted calmly, his eyes trained on the weapon masters in front of him.

"_I fully expected one as young to be quite as foolish,_" Illiam shot back before she could bite her tongue.

The wizard smirked lightly. "_Indeed…_" he nodded, still not looking at the priestess. But neither did he have to. While Illiam's words were aimed at Tarnash, they could just as well be applied to herself. She shot the wizard a venomous glare. She wasn't as angry at his baiting as much as she was angry at herself for falling for it so easily. The two weapon masters kept their staring game going, occasionally hissing something at one another.

"_Your god seems to have abandoned you,_" Illiam remarked, echoing Imloth's sentiment from a hiss ago.

The wizard shrugged. "_I would gladly discuss theology with you, priestess, but unlike our respective leaders, I'd prefer to do so with weapons sheathed._"

"_For now,_" Illiam countered.

"_For now,_" Ran'ree conceded with a nod. "_We should have plenty of time until we reach Skullport._"

Illiam looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "_We?_"

"_It seems to me that the young and foolish would do well to take advice from the old and wise,_" the older male said with a sly smile, paraphrasing an old drow proverb.

Illiam considered it for a moment. She hated the male passionately, still unwilling to forget his subtle taunts during the Lith My'athar siege, but she was smarter than letting her feelings interfere with her decisions. Important was not the same as personal after all.

"_And if I handle the foolish, you will handle the young?_"

The wizard chuckled softly. "_No need for that, priestess. Let them vent out some steam. We can find a more comfortable place to wait for them._"

He turned and regarded the priestess for the first time. Illiam returned the glare. They would both more gladly trade spells than words, but right then, they needed each other. If their two groups joined, it would be sparks and spikes all the way to Skullport, but it was still preferable to not making it to the Port of Shadows at all.

"_Very well,_" Illiam nodded and without another word, turned to her group. Ran'ree did the same.

One by one, the members of both groups slowly edged away from their circling leaders as Ran'ree and Illiam gave command to quietly start towards the larger cavern ahead.

Neither Imloth nor Tarnash noticed it at first, so intent they were on their soon-to-commence battle.

Vic'qualin strode up to his leader and grinned widely.

"_Ran'ree said we'll be in that cavern over there. Feel free to join us when you're done,_" the warrior-wizard chuckled at the pair.

Imloth and Tarnash exchanged glances and then as one, turned to regard their departing troops' backs. They were suddenly quite alone and feeling rather stupid. The failure at Lith My'athar and the track through the Underdark thinned their nerves enough to give in to their perpetual animosity without a second thought. But it was still no excuse for acting as irresponsibly as they both just did. Tarnash sighed.

"_I should have kept the old wizard,_" he grumbled and, sheathing his blades, moved after Vic'qualin. "_No, you don't count,_" he hissed at his belt a moment later, drawing a chuckle from Imloth. A short-lived one, for he instantly remembered the one who wielded the sentient blade before Tarnash.

"_Would he rub your nose in darghazar dung like this?_" he asked his rival as he moved to follow.

Tarnash shrugged. "_Probably. Unless he came up with something even more embarrassing than this._"

Imloth smirked. "_Then you should have kept him, all right._"

They continued their duel all the way into the cave, but at least it was only a verbal one now. The moment of heated enmity temporarily behind them, the two rivals turned allies out of necessity once more. At least for now. But who knew what tomorrow might bring. If either weapon master had any saying in it, blood of the other one would be the preferable option.

_**& & & & &  
**_

He fell on his knees amidst blood and guts. The flail hit the ground with a clang. His muscles shuddered beneath his skin, unable to take the strain any more. His armor was battered, marked by claws and blades, his entire body shaking with sheer exhaustion.

He had no idea where he was nor how long he had been there. He had no knowledge of when he last stopped, or dropped, or ate, or slept, or if he had done any of those things at all. He had no sense of self to speak of. All he knew was red rage, the darkness and the hunt. And whatever moved was the prey.

But even he could not keep it up any more. His body jerked violently once and then toppled over. He fell face-down into abishai remains and the darkness claimed him at last.

_**& & &  
**_

"_This was the wrong thing to do  
This was the wrong one to be doing  
This was the road to destiny  
This was the road to my ruin"_

_("This Is My Life," Megadeth)_

* * *


	35. Strange Bedfellows

**Note:** Another long-ish one, I'm afraid. Much of it is dialogue, though, so I believe it'll be an easy read. I was kinda hoping to reach the "magical" 200 reviews mark before posting this one, but... bugger it. It has nothing to do with my previous complaints, mind you - I'm just the world's champion sucker for round numbers.

Lieden - again, my editor for this chapter - suggested I expand the Skullport part a bit, but in the end, I decided against it. The chappie is long as it is and anyway, I'd end up penning down a Skullport Guidebook here (since we already established that I am simply not capable of keeping things short). I did use the Skullport supplement book as source material, though and will continue to do so as chapters/events demand. For more detailed information on the Port of Shadows, look there.

Thanks to Euphorbic for giving me a slap on the back of my head for initially completely botching the Smoke And Mirrors section. One way or another, Kimmuriel came out completely out of character in the original draft. After a rewrite, the section might still be a bit choppy and stilted, but at least Kim is back in character.  
The "mosquito score" reference is, once again, a reference to Euphorbic's Devil Takes Hindmost; Kimmuriel's apprentice that gets mentioned again is also Euphorbic's character, Jaka. For more info on him, read both Devil Takes Hindmost and Wasted Potential. You won't be dissapointed in the slightest. ;)

Finally, thanks to both TobyKikami and Wolf-Kin for going over the Lecher Bitch part for me; I'm not really good at smut-writing and I desperately needed another pair (or two) of eyes on that one. Not that smut as such is the point of that part...

On a side note, I thoroughly enjoyed writing Imloth/Tarnash part; I had that particular scene planned for ages. It _did_ take full two days to finally wrestle it down, though.

**Glossary:**

_"L'elend zhah alurl" _"Traditional is the best" - a drow proverb  
_"nek" _ "slut"

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 22 **

**Strange Bedfellows**

_**Pride And Prejudice**_

Illiam glared over Imloth's shoulder with obvious disdain. The two stood some way away from their main camp, choosing to keep their arguments private. Or at least to keep up the pretense of privacy. A week into their journey after they hooked up with Tarnash again, everybody knew the Eillistraeean weapon master and the high priestess were increasingly at odds.

"_Does it not bother you one single bit, Imloth?_" she hissed, turning her eyes on the weapon master again.

Imloth shrugged. "_Should it?_" The casual, almost disinterested tone in which he said it only fueled the priestess' anger further.

"_Should it? __Should__ it? Imloth…_"

"_It is your business, not mine,_" the male cut her off. For a second, Illiam honestly considered slapping him across the face, but held the impulse back. It would not be a wise thing to do. Still glaring daggers, the priestess stepped back and huffed crossly.

"_They are wavering,_" she said with as much calm as she could muster. "_And you tell me you don't even care?_"

The only response Imloth offered was another shrug. Illiam felt her anger rise up to new heights. "_Have you forgotten the Seer already?_" she snapped.

In a blink of an eye, he was upon her. Illiam's eyes shot wide; the look in his could melt stone.

"_Suggest that again and I will take out your tongue,_" he snarled, and in that moment, Illiam had no doubts he would follow through with his threat and caution be damned. She fought hard to keep the fear he had suddenly inspired in her hidden.

"_You cannot…_" she begun.

"_Shut up!_"

"_Imloth…_"

"_Shut up, I said!_"

Illiam clenched her jaw tight. Imloth stepped back but kept his gaze locked on her firmly as he took a breath to steady himself. "_I will tell you this one more time and one more time alone – I will see us safely to Skullport. All of us._" He put an emphasis on "all". "_No matter what it takes. __And__, I __will__ honor the promise the Seer had made, even if you don't._"

Illiam started to protest, but he didn't let her.

"_Or have __you__ forgotten the Seer so soon,_" he hissed, driving the point home.

Illiam started to respond, but found the arguments dying one by one in her throat as she stared in the eyes of the Seer's most favorite (and, she couldn't help but remember, most competent) commander. There _was_ a deal, she knew. Struck long ago and in turbulent times, but a deal nonetheless. Tarnash had cowed his wizard abbil into procuring a Resurrection scroll: Imloth's life for the Eillistraeean groups' aid. But she couldn't believe Imloth was this keen on honoring that deal, especially not when it concerned the prolonged welfare of his bitter rival. Imloth standing up against an Eillistraeean for Tarnash's sake? She didn't think she'd live to see the day…

So it had to be something else than – a convenient explanation, a cover-up for what was really on the weapon master's mind. She stared at him hard, her pride giving her the strength to do so even if a greater part of her just wanted to get away from the dangerous male as fast as possible.

"_We will reach Skullport as we are now. That is my business. Everything that goes on along the way is yours._" Imloth stated through gritted teeth and the tone of his voice left no doubt that this was his final word. He underlined the sentiment by immediately turning around and walking away.

Illiam bit her lip. She replayed their exchange in her head quickly, trying to view it objectively, without her wounded pride and searing anger clouding her judgment. It was harder to do than she thought. Too many conflicting emotions assaulted her from within. She looked at Imloth again, his stiff back and brisk stride and reconsidered her latest statement.

Young and brash, Illiam was still a priestess of Eillistraee. She was aware of her many faults, her hot temper not being the last on the list, but she did not count lack of empathy among them. Swiftly, she moved after the weapon master, hurrying to reach him before he reached the main camp area.

She caught up with him and grasped his shoulder. "_Imloth!_"

He clenched his teeth and stopped to regard her, his lips a thin line and his eyes narrowed.

Illiam forced her own anger down to make way for more important things. "_Imloth… I apologize. I still disagree with you, but…_" she bit her lip and looked away for a second, "_I should be more civil about it. What I said about the Seer was uncalled for. I am sorry._" She forced herself to look him in the eye as she said it. It would have been pointless otherwise.

Imloth glared at her hard, but couldn't deny the honesty in her voice. Well, if Illiam could swallow her pride like that, he couldn't rightfully hold on to his anger in the face of her apology. He took a deep breath and nodded, but said nothing. His throat was too tight to push any words through.

Illiam let go of his arm and stepped back. She threw a quick glance their troops' way and saw many eyes were similarly trained on her. Not glaring openly, but surely, following their leaders' exchange with more than a passing interest. She sighed and went back to the far end of the cave where she and Imloth had their face-off a moment ago.

The only person sitting close enough to catch a few words of that argument was Ran'ree. All along, the wizard had been peacefully sitting, cross-legged, seemingly absorbed in the open spellbook resting in his lap. Now that Illiam strode back, he looked up and raised his eyebrows, a slightly amused expression on his face. His perpetual calm instantly reminded Illiam why she couldn't stand the sight of him longer than a few moments in a row. She honestly wondered if lighting a pyre right under his scrawny ass would be enough to make him even flinch, let alone jump up to put it out. So unlike herself…

She pointedly ignored his gaze as she made her way to the bedroll next to the wall and slumped down on it. There was so much to think about. Ran'ree's calmness only served as a stark reminder of her own hot temper. She really wished to see the male lose his own. Just for once.

She sighed and leaned forward, bending her knees and bringing her arms to rest atop them and stared at the cavern ahead. Between their two groups, they were a bit more than a hundred strong and she couldn't deny the value of numbers in these perilous tunnels. She could deny the value of mixed parties even less. Every drow city she knew of sent out their patrols with at least one wizard and one priestess attached. With casters of both arcane and divine to complement the warriors and trackers, scouting parties had every chance of returning home unharmed. It was wise to have it like this, she kept reminding herself, but a part of her still fumed at the arrangement regardless. The same part that perfectly hated the sight in front of her.

While their commanders may have been rivals from the day one, not all members of their groups felt the same way. They had, after all, been fighting side-by-side against the Valsharess for almost a full year now. While there wasn't any camaraderie among them –for they were, after all, drow- there wasn't much open hostility either. The two groups mingled, too easily and too readily for Illiam to be comfortable with. At first, she had hoped the journey would provide opportunities for her and the rest of the Eillistraeeans to perhaps reach out to some of the Tarnash's band, to maybe bring some of them into their own fold along the way. But things weren't working out as the priestess had hoped. On the contrary, it seemed to her that many in her own group now saw Tarnash and his rebels as a better option. Which, she realized, wasn't so surprising considering the wily commander's troops.

They were all that remained of House Maeviir now and all of them had participated in its downfall. True, some joined them only after it became evident which was the winning side, but Tarnash made sure to weed out any potential spider-kissers the moment the battle was over. And now, he had a band of true followers of the Masked God under his command; Iliam doubted she could convert even a single one. Even, no, _especially,_ the few females among them. But that wasn't what grated her nerves so much. What grated her nerves was that, with their cocky attitude and endless confidence, members of Tarnash's band seemed to have been winning over the members of her own group. Drow, she knew, were not a peaceful race. Battle, turmoil and conquest appealed to them. And Tarnash's gang could provide those three things aplenty. So where did that leave Illiam, than?

She clenched her fists and forced herself to look deeper inside, searching for the true source of her anger. She was a priestess and a powerful one. Her faith was strong and true. She didn't just venerate the Goddess – she _believed_ in her and her way, she _lived _her tenets with every breath she took. How than, could she sit idly and not care about all this? How could Imloth, for that matter? She sighed and shook her head, going through their argument all over again.

They were in the upper northern tunnels now, the main trade route but a few days away. It was far from safe, of course, but it _was_ a beaten track and more routes than just one led to Skullport from here. Surely, they could allow themselves to split up now and head their separate ways. Before her dwindling ranks thinned even further…

But Imloth was dead against it. After thinking it through once more, Illiam could only conclude he was right. He spent much more time in the wild Underdark than she – she would be wise to adhere to his judgment in this. And yet… She still couldn't bring herself to concede to his decision willingly.

Because, she admitted to herself at last, she was afraid of that prospect, much more than she wanted to be. Because… Because… Because, she realized at length, it felt as if everything the Seer had worked for was falling apart and Illiam simply could not accept that. And not, certainly not, on _her_ watch. Because she felt as if she should now try and fill in the void left by the Seer's death, but the mantle of leadership and responsibility was proving too heavy, too hard to wear. Because she was afraid she would not live up to the task.

She pulled her knees closer to her, wrapping her arms about them and rested her chin on top of them in contemplation. She _knew_ she _could_ do it. She _knew_ it! But her temper was getting the best of her every time. The Seer had always been calm. Illiam never was. While the Seer was alive, it all worked out wonderfully – their temperaments complimented each other perfectly. But now… Now, Illiam would have to reign in her temper and let her wisdom guide her actions instead. And that, she knew, won't be easy in the slightest.

She watched as the "hells' quartet" - as she dubbed a particularly tight group of Tarnash's scouts - made their way through the camp jesting and laughing, and frowned as she saw them joining a group of her own. "_Everything else that goes along the way is your business,_" Imloth's words resounded in her thoughts. Damn him, she cursed inwardly, recognizing the deeper meaning in what he said. If she was to be a true successor to the Seer, then she would have to work for it. And Imloth, in his refusal to separate the groups, provided her with the most rocky road conceivable to do it on. But it _was_ her business to see to the issues of devotion and loyalty, wasn't it? Oh vith…

She glanced to the side only to see Ran'ree still watching her - Patiently, curse him.

"_What are you staring at?_" she snapped and immediately winced. Once again, she let her temper speak for her. He merely smiled and cocked his head, but her wince was not lost on the perceptive wizard. She fought down the impulse to launch a spell his way and asked him again:

"_Well? Is there something you want?_" she said, more calmly now. "_If there is something, then say it and be done with it. I wish to go into reverie soon and I cannot rest properly with you staring like that._"

The older drow smiled at her statement before slapping his spellbook shut and rising to his feet.

"_Then I shall leave you to your rest, priestess,_" he bowed lightly and turned to leave. He could feel the young female's annoyance keenly and he thoroughly enjoyed it. Still, he stopped after a few steps and turned to her again.

"_You are young, priestess, and you know little of the wild Underdark or the way the minds change when outside the confines of big cities._" He gestured towards the camp at large. "_Watch, and learn, now that the chance presents itself, and you may return to the Promenade wiser for the experience._"

He left her to mull over his words and went to join the rest of the group in the camp. There was still no love lost between them, but he could let an occasional off-handed advice float her way. It would keep her on her toes and offer him even more opportunities for subtle taunts in the future. But there would be less chances of retaliation on her part as time went by and that was what Ran'ree was aiming for. He had not survived all the centuries of his life by acting rashly or cutting off potential contacts when he didn't have to. And besides, he chuckled to himself, the look on her face when he confused her so was priceless.

_**& & &  
**_

_**Smoke and Mirrors**_

Kimmuriel stepped into a high recess at the back of a larger cavern. The spires of Menzoberranzan disappeared behind him as his portal simmered and closed. The psionic allowed himself one of his rare grins - Turning their opponents' schemes against them was something drow always delighted in.

No fool, Sinvyl left some of her infiltrated troops with Bregan D'Aerthe base in the city; she wouldn't let the dangerous psionic to run his schemes past her. It made using those same troops for his own ends all the sweeter.

The psionic couldn't allow his time away from the marching forces to coincide with every patrol's demise out in the tunnels. He had to time his absences carefully. On those occasions when his presence was absolutely necessary for the patrol to get rid of Sinvyl's informants, he had to create large smoke screens to cover up for his actions in an acceptable manner. Being seen somewhere else at roughly the same time his patrols did their bloody work was one of the best ways to do it. Preferably, with credible witnesses abound. And who, he chuckled softly, would be more credible than Sinvyl's own informants?

His stratagems worked. He made certain that the latest 'liberation' of his troops happened while he was speaking with one of the Matron Mothers of Menzoberranzan – Matron Argach-Dyrr, no less. And today, several higher-ranking members of Sinvyl's forces saw him "secretly" entering the Clawrift. A few well-placed lies further informed them that the psionic was trying to run some personal agenda within the city. Their inquiries into the matter would yield them additional "inside information" on his supposed scheme – information that would eventually lead them on a wild rothe chase all the way to Ched Nasad and, conveniently, as far away from his actual designs as they could get.

However, not every Sinvyl's design could be turned to work against her so efficiently. She and her lackeys kept their eyes on the communications of Bregan D'Aerthe at an alarming frequency. Keeping track on his troops' movements grew increasingly difficult as of late. Their usual means of information exchange, certain silver whistles included, had also become unreliable.

Kimmuriel sighed irritably and leaned his elbows on the mound behind him. His business concluded, he should have returned to his troops immediately. Still, he could afford an hour or two of delay. He made sure of that: The wild magic was strong in the middle of this cavern, with the effects wearing out at the edges. This far back, he could open the portal safely but if asked, he would claim the wild zone interfered with his portal's destination and sent him here instead of straight to Yasvyrae.

He needed some time alone to think things through. There were angles to be sorted out and the communication problem to solve. With so many plots in full-swing – thwarting Sinvyl's plans for Skullport invasion, possible acquisition of Lith My'athar as another base of operations (he still hadn't given up on the idea, even after the city fell), keeping tabs on the ever-shifting power struggles in Menzoberranzan, plus keeping the regular business of Bregan D'Aerthe running – Yes, he definitely had to come up with a way to keep his eye on things as closely as he could possibly manage.

Deep in contemplation, the only option that _hadn't_ occurred to the psionic was the possibility of a solution landing – almost literally - straight into his lap. As fate would have it, that was precisely what happened.

Just as he was mulling over a particularly risky scheme that involved enlisting some of his haszakin contacts, a ripple of air occurred somewhere around his ankles and something small and scaly darted between his feet.

Having his thoughts interrupted in such an abrupt manner, Kimmuriel narrowed his eyes dangerously and spun about, prepared to lash out with his mind at whatever it was that startled him so. He had expected it to be something dangerous, perhaps one of the magic-imbued Underdark denizens or even one of Sinvyl's spies that somehow caught wind of his schemes.

Instead, and much to his surprise, the psionic found he had suddenly acquired a Deekin.

Deekin came up from his roll and blinked in confusion. He spotted a familiar-looking drow group through the Mirror and dared another teleport spell. This, he decided, was most certainly _not_ the spot he wanted to go to. And the drow who stood staring at him wasn't known to him either.

"_Why you looks at Deekin like that?_" the kobold mumbled as he ran a claw along the top of his head in an attempt to determine if his horns perhaps reached the desired location even if the rest of his body didn't. It sure felt like it. "_You never sees a kobold before?_"

Immediately, Kimmuriel's eyes got drawn to a pair of wings on the beast's back. His subconsciousness turned up a card from the memory vault, bringing a whole plethora of questions along for a ride. Thinking it better to stun the creature first and ask questions later, the psionic lashed out with his mind, slamming hard into the kobold's psyche.

"_Yikes!_" The kobold jumped back, tripped on his tail and landed on his butt.

"_Aw,_" he said, squinting at the drow. "_Why you whacks Deekin on the head? That not be nice, you knows._"

The psionic glared. By all rights, the blast should have sent any lesser creature sprawling on the ground, unconscious. This kobold appeared merely puzzled by the experience. Frowning, the psionic launched another mind blast at it.

Deekin scrambled to his feet and instantly, toppled over again as the second psi-strike burst through his skull.

Yelping, the kobold jumped back, grabbed something from its backpack, brought it above its head and hissed menacingly. Kimmuriel blinked. He had just been threatened by a kobold holding up something flat and oval, still half-wrapped in a pair of underpants. The sheer absurdity of the situation almost made him chuckle despite his aggravation.

And then he took a better look at what the kobold was holding in its hands.

"_If you kicks Deekin's head again, Deekin breaks the Mirror on yours,_" the kobold stated. "_That be ten years of bad luck, you knows,_" he added helpfully.

"_Seven,_" Kimmuriel corrected dryly.

"_Deekin is thinking this Mirror be worth ten…_"

Kimmuriel paused, keeping his next blast in check and looked at the kobold squarely. He couldn't risk another mind attack with the beast holding such a valuable item like that.

"_How did you get here, kobold?_"

The creature brightened up immediately and dropped its rucksack on the floor. Kimmuriel narrowed his eyes slightly as the pest begun rummaging through it with one hand.

Eventually, a pile of papers got fished out, accompanied by an excited chatter.

"_This be how Deekin gots here!_" the kobold announced proudly. "_It all be there, in Deekin's notes. Errr…_" The creature looked up at the drow a bit sheepishly. "_Deekin coulds use proofreading he thinking…_"

Outwardly, the psionic showed no reaction. Inwardly, he almost choked. Was this creature for real? For a moment, he couldn't help but wonder if he had mistakenly opened up a portal into an alternate dimension of madness instead of the simple cave? Maybe a band of tanar'ri would organize a peace conference next.

He dismissed the idiotic image from his head and focused on the little pest.

"…_but if you not wants to read, Deekin tells you instead. Deekin always happy to tell a tale..._" said pest prattled on, lost somewhere in the incomprehensible fog of a Merry Deekin-Land.

Momentarily, Kimmuriel considered risking another blast anyway, but changed his mind as another range of possibilities opened up before his eyes. Gathering his patience, he resigned to listening to a winding tale of the "brave kobold's" part in Lith My'athar battle and the subsequent exploits in the Wilds.

The experience was trying, to say the least, but in the end, it did provide the psionic with valuable information on what transpired during the siege. It also made him certain that an attempt to pry that information by mind-scanning the kobold would have been a bad idea. What he was likely to find inside _that_ scaly head made the mind-merge with the kobold's shadowdancer boss appear like a stroll through a garden in comparison.

But it seemed the ordeal was finally over. Information gathered, the psionic's patience with the beast was nearing its end.

"…_And then Deekin gets hungry,_" the high-pitched voice snapped the psionic out of his thoughts, "…_and eats big red mushrooms that taste like old boss smells and…_" The kobold stopped talking, noting the expression on the drow's face. "_You is looking sour. You eats bad mushrooms, maybes? Deekin be eating bad mushrooms, too._"His muzzle wrinkled at the memory. "_They makes Deekin sneeze… Like…_" he felt the sneeze coming on again, "_This-CHOO!_"

Kimmuriel jumped back, his eyes widening slightly as he watched the kobold turn its head away at the last moment and sneeze out a fireball to put a lesser wizard to shame.

"_Eh… Deekin hopes you nots sneeze this bad,_" the kobold said, waving a puff of smoke away from his nose. "_It be itchy._"

Kimmuriel kept his eyes on the flickering flames in the cavern below him. He ran through the facts once more:

The creature had the Mirror in its possession. Kimmuriel wanted the item for himself. In his current situation, it would prove an invaluable asset – exactly the sort of thing he needed in order to keep his plans going smoothly. However…

If Kimmuriel was seen with the item, it would immediately arise many uncomfortable questions. Even if he answered them to the askers' satisfaction, the item would still likely be confiscated from him. But if the kobold kept it… tucked safely in its backpack… with Kimmuriel being the only one in the know…

Who, the psionic mused, growing increasingly intrigued by the prospect, would ever suspect a mere kobold to possess such an item. Even if it _did_ sport a pair of wings and a lute, he could still hardly imagine anyone rummaging through dirty kobold underwear, least of all Yasvyrae and her ilk.

A wicked smile found its way to the psionic's face as he outlined a new scheme in his mind. Yes, it would work. Although never one for keeping pets in the past, he could easily pass the kobold off as one now. Compared to the potential gains, putting up with incessant Deekinisms for a while would be a small price to pay.

And, he grinned privately, once this whole ordeal was done, he could find another use for the pest; more to the point, for its pelt. His apprentice would be delighted to no end.

That decided, Kimmuriel tapped his fingers against his calf and addressed the creature before him.

"_You will come with me, kobold,_" he informed it.

Deekin cocked his head. "_You is not very polite._"

"_I offer you a deal, kobold – the best one you can hope to get in these circumstances. Take it or leave it,_" Kimmuriel said. "_Behave, do as I say, and you might live to see Skullport in one piece. You survived so far, but the track ahead is more dangerous than you know._"

The kobold looked at him curiously. "_So, you takes care of Deekin, then?_"

The psionic regarded the hopeful-looking beast blankly. Kimmuriel, the kobold caretaker…? No, that didn't sound good at all… Still, he reminded himself of potential gains and forced himself to nod curtly.

"_Awww, Deekin sooo happy!_" Kimmuriel winced. "_Deekin puts you in his book and…_"

Both psionic's hands shot up in alarm. "_No. No books._" He was willing to put up with lots of things for this to work, but being forever penned down as the rescuer of kobolds was definitely _not_ one of them. The kobold looked crestfallen. A vile idea crossed Kimmuriel's mind.

"_But should we all survive, I will introduce you to someone who'd be delighted to have his biography written down._"

The beast immediately brightened up. Kimmuriel couldn't suppress the grin spreading wide on his face. Jarlaxle had no idea what was coming to him…

Some time later, a smug-looking psionic walked into Yasvyrae's camp, one happy little kobold in tow.

_& & &  
_

Later that evening, as he witnessed Yasvyrae's reactions to the little beast, Kimmuriel decided the trouble he went through in the cavern was worth the sight. And even later, as he replayed the events of the day in his head, another sly smile found its way on his features. While he was positive Jarlaxle would be completely enamored by the little pest, he was even more positive that someone else would be thoroughly peeved by it. How fortunate the two were traveling together, he thought and his smile grew even wider. He still had a certain mosquito score to settle…

At his end of the cavern, Deekin did well in hiding the smug expression on his own face. He had spent his early life in a tribe ruled by a blue dragon; much of that time, he spent as the dragon's personal bard. He had traveled great lengths since then and for the past year, he had been constantly walking among the members of a powerful, intolerant and arrogant race with only his lute and his wits standing between them. Almost everybody he came in contact thus far could, if push really came to shove, likely obliterate him with little effort and never give it a second thought. But that wasn't the point. The point was that none of them had tried yet.

He smiled a toothy grin in the darkness. It _had_ been almost full two weeks since he had those mushrooms after all…

_**& & &  
**_

_**Sense And Sensibility**_

Imloth paced through the camp with a private storm cloud about him. Though he'd never admit it out loud, with every passing day, the circumstances were wearing his nerves unbearably thin. Not that it wasn't obvious… He kept his irritation under control much better than Illiam had, but nonetheless, it was there. When he first crossed this track, he was following the Seer, working alongside another Promenade commander and Valen and with roughly four hundred soldiers behind him. When the image of the time past superimposed itself on the one before his eyes, he couldn't help but feel as close to despair as he had ever been. The row with Illiam didn't improve his mood much, either. He was still seething when he reached the other side of the cavern and a strange smell invaded his nostrils.

He paused in his tracks and tilted his head up, his nostrils widening as he inhaled more deeply. For the love of the Maiden…

He spun on his heels sharply, clenching his fists. The idiot… There was a small depression in the wall to his right that served as Tarnash's chosen resting spot. Less than ten feet across and separated from the main cavern by an almost door-like entrance, Imloth marched into it half-prepared to take the Vhaeraunite's head off. He paused briskly at the entrance and chuckled under his breath in spite of his mood. When it came to good reasons to get angry again, Tarnash had yet to disappoint him.

He entered the small cave and paused at the doorway, taking in the sight of his rival before him. Half-seated on a rock, upper body leaned against the wall, the Vhaeraunite leader stared at the ceiling, smirking lightly. In his right, he had a roll of tobacco – a vile-smelling intoxicant comprised of Abyss knew what mushrooms and weeds. He held it between his fingers, the lit part turned towards his palm. While that obscured the flame somewhat, it did little to stop the foul odor from filling the air thick. Every once in a while, he brought the thing to his mouth, drawing on it deeply and with obvious zest, and then pursed his lips to form perfect little circles of smoke as he exhaled. His hair tied loosely in a tail, thick strands falling out of the knot and down across his face, he tilted his head and regarded the Eilistraeean's entrance with one of his customary wry smirks.

Imloth glared. "_You wish to draw every last creature in a ten mile radius towards us?_" he said dryly, nodding at the intoxicant.

Tarnash chuckled, a bit giddily. Clearly, he had been smoking for quite a while; the thing between his fingers was half-burnt already and, Imloth noted with growing sourness, the stub of the previous one lay on the ground next to his rival's boot.

Imloth moved slightly to the left of the entrance, crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, all the while glaring daggers at Tarnash. "_Well…?_" he prompted.

Tarnash chuckled again and drew another deep breath of smoke. "_Don't be daft,_" he said, and the tone of his voice only confirmed Imloth's suspicions about Tarnash's current state of mind. "_There __isn't__ anything in ten miles radius around us. Or at least,_" he grinned flippantly, "_nothing dangerous enough._"

Imloth groaned. "_Right now, a lap lizard would be dangerous for you, Tarnash. You'd hurt yourself trying to hit it._" He taunted, more to gauge his reaction than out of any real concern about Tarnash's potentially slow reflexes. The Vhaeraunite merely laughed at the statement.

"_A lap lizard, Imloth? I never thought you'd describe yourself as one,_" he grinned. Too flippantly, concerning he was alone in a cavern with a potential enemy far more dangerous than a lap lizard. Imloth raised his eyebrows, sensing what Tarnash was about to say next. The warning not to take the jibe any further was clear on his face, but it went flying straight over Tarnash's head.

"_Of course, you're a lap short now,_" the Vhearaunite finished his thought with a sly – although a bit lightheaded - chuckle.

Imloth's muscles tensed. His hands fell on the blade hilts.

"_I warned you that stuff will attract enemies, Tarnash,_" he said menacingly, "_And they need not be ten miles away._"

"_Ah, so you and Illiam agreed after all?_" Tarnash poked despite his better judgment.

Imloth glared. "_Not yet. But keep provoking and I might reconsider._"

Tarnash cocked his head curiously and blew a stray strand of hair off his eye. "_Why?_" he asked, honest puzzlement finding it's way to his voice. "_Why go against her in the first place? We both know you'd like nothing better than to see my back. You probably have a dagger sharpened for just the occasion. …As do I,_" he admitted as an afterthought. "_So why not part ways right now and good riddance to us all?_"

Imloth stared at him hard. His question was more than sound. No doubt Illiam would pay dearly to hear the answer herself. Why indeed…?

Tarnash watched his rival carefully as he drew another lungful of smoke. Their rivalry aside, in a situation this perilous he needed to know exactly where he and his band stood with Imloth and his. And why.

"_You feel you owe it to the Seer,_" he said at length, thinking he figured the riddle properly. While Imloth was no fool, Tarnash knew sentimentality of such sort was not beyond the dangerous Eilistraeean.

Imloth leaned back against the wall. "_Among other things,_" he admitted casually, drawing another curious glance from Tarnash. But there was no simple answer he could give him. He chose his course for a number of reasons and none stood above another in terms of value. Taken separately, none of it had sufficient weight; only combined did they make some actual sense. He sighed, figuring that giving Tarnash his answer would help him sort his own thoughts out better.

"_We still have better chances of reaching Skullport if we stick together._"

"_The Valsharess' army may be more than a week behind us, but they could still increase their pace,_" Tarnash contemplated. "_Smaller bands move faster than a big one._" Viewed in that light, separating their parties would appear a reasonable thing to do.

Imloth shook his head. "_Maybe. But they're also easier to strike down. Between us, we have enough mixed troops to strike at her advanced scouts if need be. And,_" he held his hand up, forestalling any protests Tarnahs might have about it, "_we have scouting parties __ahead__ of us to consider as well._"

Tarnash's eyebrows raised. He didn't know anything about any parties running _ahead_ of them. Imloth smirked. "_Bregan D'Aerthe is spearheading the attack on Skullport,_" he informed the Vhaeraunite commander.

He noted with some satisfaction the myriad of emotions that played themselves out on Tarnahs's face at this latest bit of news. Incredulity and anxiety were the most prominent ones on display. Bregan D'Aerthe was a powerful band, its reputation widespread, well-deserved and deadly. Even the Matron Mothers of Menzoberranzan wanted no confrontation with them, let alone an upstart Vhaeraunite leader.

"_If we are to avoid them, we must take the side tunnels to Skullport and play hide-and-seek all along the way. Only with mixed parties do we stand a chance of running that gauntlet successfully._"

Tarnash leaned back, digesting the information. "_So it's about survival, than?_" he said at length, deciding to leave a more thorough chewing for when he was in full control of his senses again.

"_That, and I'd rather keep tabs on you than let you run loose. I'm no more in mind of letting you blunt your dagger on my kidneys than you are in mind of letting me blunt mine on yours,_" Imloth said evenly.

Tarnash laughed again. Even death threats became amusing after a few good smokes. He brushed another errant strand of hair off his face and regarded Imloth through a smoky haze.

"_There's something else you're not telling me,_" he stated bluntly.

Imloth blinked. Did Tarnash truly expect to get a full answer from him? Well, considering his current state of mind, that just might be so, Imloth concluded dryly. Still… this did provide him with an opening he needed to introduce another bit of information he wanted to discuss. He had been waiting for a chance to bring it up for days and now that the opportunity presented itself he wasn't about to let it fly past unused. Besides, Tarnash's intoxication might mean straighter answers at this point, and Imloth wanted them as straight and detailed as possible. There was much to be deduced from expressions and stances alone and this was one of the rare moments in which the Vhaeraunite had his guard lowered somewhat.

"_I grow tired of backstabs, Tarnash,_" Imloth said at length and sounded every bit as weary as his words implied. "_Especially from your side of the fence._"

Tarnash blew out another ring of smoke. "_Nathyrra wasn't on my side of the fence,_" he reminded tersely.

Imloth gritted his teeth. "_True…_" he said grimly. "_But too many others were: Myrune, Zesyyr, Cahlind, Saldrin… Need I go on?_"

"_We __are__ drow,_" Tarnash pointed out the obvious.

"_And half-drow,_" Imloth cut in, watching his rival's face intently.

Tarnash tilted his head, not certain what to make of this new twist in the conversation. He easily summarized _who_ was Imloth talking about, but the _why_ of it escaped him. "_She wasn't on 'my' side of the fence either._" He waved his hand, sending a trail of smoke and ash up in the air. "_At any rate, they're all dead._"

"_Shi'van isn't._" Deadpan.

Tarnash's hand stopped half-way to his lips. A flicker of the cigarette flame reflected in his eye. "_Come again?_"

"_You're not my type._"

Tarnash let the rejoinder slide. His mind reeled at the prospect and he wasn't entirely sure why.

"_She can't possibly be,_" he argued anyway.

"_She is. I've seen her_. _She killed at least two of my group as we fled the city._" An icy sheen coated his words. Any favorable feelings he might have had towards the dancer waned fast every time he remembered the sight of the priestess falling down in a bloodied, shadow-clad heap.

Tarnash stared hard at his rival. "_Even if that were true, what's it to you now?_"

Imloth returned the glare. "_You're not __that__ high, Tarnash,_" he said with a scorn, letting his rival work it out on his own.

Tarnash leaned back and attempted to sort things out. Aside from himself and Valen, Imloth was the only other person who closely observed the dancer fighting; there was no way he would mistake her for somebody else. Thus, he had to be telling him the truth. However, the logic was merciless in its simplicity: the dancer was under a Geas, Sinvyl was still alive, therefore, the dancer must be dead. Oh, there had been rumors within the ranks claiming otherwise, but Tarnash paid them little heed. But to have _Imloth_ state it – not guess or speculate, but state it as a fact…

He blinked somewhat groggily, realizing his thoughts dwelled on the dancer herself rather than the implications her continued existence may have on the current situation. Once again, he wasn't entirely sure why.

He pursed his lips and focused on the ceiling. "_If both she and Sinvyl are alive, than she must have broken the Geas somehow,_" he pondered out loud. "_And if she did…_" he stopped and looked at Imloth incredulously. "_You can't possibly think I know how she might have managed to do that._"

Imloth shook his head. "_No. I don't._"

"_Then what?_" Tarnash snapped irritably. And then it dawned on him. He smirked. "_You want to know if she would go through with the kill anyway?_"

Imloth nodded. Tarnash had spent a considerable amount of time with the woman in the past; he _might_ have garnered something about her that others missed. Imloth doubted it, but still… Of all the people present, he and Tarnash knew the dancer best – any insight the Vhaeraunite might have to offer would be invaluable. Two heads were better than one and all that.

And yet, that was only one part – a smaller part - of Imloth's reasons for bringing the issue up. While Sinvyl's potential demise had great bearing on things to come, he doubted he and Tarnash could reach any worthwhile conclusions on the subject. But Tarnash had spent much time with the dancer, had even –or so the rumors claimed- refrained from killing her when he had every reason to do so. Hearing him ponder things out would give Imloth the most valuable insight into his rival's mind yet.

Tarnash looked at him for a long time, saying nothing. The cigarette burned almost to his fingers and he used the stub to light another one.

"_I don't know,_" he said at last, diverting his gaze to the ceiling once more. "_You tell me._"

Imloth shrugged. "_She sold out to Sinvyl. Earlier, she claimed Sinvyl killed her father. You were there when she said it._"

"_It seemed honest enough,_" Tarnash mused, replaying that particular scene in his head.

"_Yes, but how much weight would you put on her words? Did she ever tell you anything more about it?_"

Tarnash laughed. "_Tell? She always played it as close to the chest as any drow I know._" It was clear from the tone of his voice that, rather than hold that against her, the Vhaeraunite actually appreciated the trait. "_I doubt I know any more than you do._"

"_Your best guess, than,_" Imloth prompted.

Tarnash smirked. "_You first._"

It was Imloth's turn to will the ceiling to provide an answer. "_She never wanted to come down here in the first place…_" he said slowly. "_She charged dearly for her services…_" he paused a moment, considering things from the opposite angle. "_And we –the Seer- paid her, even if the spell would have forced her to play along anyway._"

"_How noble of you,_" Tarnash cut in sardonically. Imloth ignored it.

"_And even after that, she was reluctant to help, all the way until…_" He left it hanging and looked at Tarnash meaningfully.

"_Ra'sin,_" Tarnash finished.

"_You,_" the Eillistraeean corrected. He said "you", but it was clear he meant "Vhaeraun". Tarnash grinned.

"_Wrong course, Imloth. She's not a devout; not even a worshiper._"

"_And yet…_"

Tarnash waved it off as inconsequential. "_She acted pragmatically, as always._" He snickered.

"_And the most pragmatic thing for her to do now would of course be…_"

_To throw her hand in with Sinvyl, obviously. _Tarnash winced at the thought, his mirth abruptly dispersed. Across the cavern, Imloth smirked inwardly. He had Tarnash cornered with that last sentence, back pressed against the wall by simple sense and logic. Now to see if there's any sensibility lurking beneath the cocky Vhaeraunite's mental armor.

Tarnash frowned, thinking hard, but no matter which avenue he chose to explore, the track invariably led down to the same conclusion: the dancer now played for the opposite team.

He shook his head in dismay, hair flying freely across his face. "_No,_" he murmured quietly to himself but Imloth's keen ears caught it regardless.

"_You have a reason to say that?_" his rival prodded. Tarnash shot him a foul glare. "_Or is it just wishful thinking on your part?_" Imloth hammered the point home.

Tarnash glowered. "_Why did you bother me with all this if you worked it out yourself already?_" he snapped, with more hostility than the subject should have provoked.

Imloth started to respond – with another taunt, no doubt – but Tarnash wouldn't allow him the opportunity. Instead, he took the initiative and went on the offensive.

"W_ere you perhaps hoping I would provide a different angle? Did you,_" he pushed himself away from the wall and stood up, "_hope I'd prove you wrong? Why, Imloth? Because it would have been a preferable option right now?_" He started towards his rival, eyeing him dangerously, "_Or maybe because you can't stand the idea of someone not playing to your dead leader's tune? Because,_" he sneered, ignoring the dangerous glow that lit in Imloth's eyes, "_the idea of selfishness offends you?!_"

Vaguely, he was aware he was bullshitting, and with much more force and passion than he should. He pressed on all the same.

Imloth raised his eyebrows at that last bit. Where was Tarnash headed with this? At the same time, he couldn't douse an angry glint that sparked in his eye; the image of the dancer slaughtering the priestess flickered all too vividly in his mind.

Tarnash was standing in front of him now. It was perhaps the first time since they knew each other that they stood so close but neither had a hand on a weapon hilt.

"_Do you blame her for acting the way she did?_" he hissed in Imloth's face. "_Did you truly expect a known survivor to act any different? And __despite__ the way you treated her at that?_"

Imloth frowned. "_What do you mean?_"

Tarnash regarded him for a moment and then laughed in his face. "_What do I mean? Imloth, don't act a bigger fool than you are. You,_" he gestured with the cigarette, "_and your precious bunch marked her for death the second she arrived._"

Imloth tilted his head and waved the smoke away. "_Have we?_"

"_Haven't you?_" Tarnash shot back. "_You all had nine hells of a time pondering how to kill Sinvyl. And than Shi'van drops in and oh-so-conveniently spares you the trouble of sacrificing your own in an assassination attempt. And of course, you instantly grab the opportunity, with both hands._"

Imloth narrowed his eyes. "_We __are__ drow,_" he repeated Tarnash's own words from a while ago sharply. "_Don't tell me you wouldn't do the same._"

Tarnash grinned vilely. "_**I**__ would. But I wouldn't try to justify it by 'greater good' or other such nonsense,_" he spat. "_You__ are the ones claiming to play for the 'good' team, and yet, __you__ are the ones who leave pawns behind to die doing your dirty work._"

Imloth grinded his teeth and grimaced. Tarnash's grin came dipped in acid.

"_And now she somehow breaks through the spell and spoils your righteous little scheme and you have the audacity to hold it against her?!_" The Vhaeraunite laughed bitterly.

Imloth glared. Surely, much of Tarnash's outburst came as a direct result of the toxin in his lungs, but what seeped between the lines was not mushrooms talking. There was indeed a warped sentiment of affection for the dancer within him. Was it born out of his new-found religion, some twisted sense of debt or something third, Imloth couldn't begin to guess; he doubted even Tarnash could, but there it was.

And another truth about the brash weapon master revealed itself to Imloth presently. Tarnash always had a reputation of going out of his way to shield his own. It was pragmatism that guided his steps, but deep down, there was more to it than just that: Tarnash _truly_ resented leaving his own behind when he didn't have to. It was likely the most important insight into the Vhaeraunite's mind Imloth had gained yet. And he was satisfied with what he learned greatly. In the light of that revelation, his choice to stick together was confirmed to be the right one. He may wish the male dead privately, but as long as they were bound by a common goal, Tarnash could be depended on to hold his end of the bargain fully. He had suspected as much before; now, he was certain of it.

But reassuring as that was, it still did little to erase the bitter aftertaste that Tarnash's summary of Shi'van situation left him with. He painted a grim and far from complimentary picture of the Eilistraeean groups' actions with his words and the worst part was, Imloth could not find a false line in it. He leaned back against the wall again and looked at the Vhaeraunite crossly. With a bitter-smug smirk Tarnash pushed past him and through the cave entrance.

"_Stop fouling the air,_" Imloth grumbled and snatched the smoke from Tarnash's unresisting fingers as the Vhaeraunite walked out.

Left alone, Imloth kept his gaze on Tarnash's back until he went out of sight and then turned to regard the foul-smelling thing in his hand. Shaking his head, he brought it up to his lips and drew a deep breath. He nearly choked at the taste that suddenly burned it's way down his throat. Strong, potent and deceptively sweet, until one inhaled it all the way and found the bitter sharpness burning within. Pretty much like the one who rolled it up.

Imloth smirked, shook his head again and inhaled another one. He had to admit - it was some good shit.

_**& & &  
**_

_**Lecher Bitch**_

"_I am the lecher bitch  
And I call on those who feed on danger  
Taste of the whore, suffer my seed  
Crawl with the heretic and the world outside gets a little bit stranger  
Look in my eyes  
Wanna little star fuck and a little good pain"_

_("Lecher Bitch," Genitorturers)_

The door of the Matron's chamber in Maeviir compound opened soundlessly to admit a warrior inside. He was a fine specimen. Lizard riders often were.

They had to be lean and wiry – strong as Cold Ones were, a rider with too much weight would still slow them down. They also needed to be dexterous and with an excellent sense of balance, enough to both steer the mount and wield a weapon at the same time, often while hanging upside-down from the ceiling. But they also needed to be strong enough to wield their deadly lances and other assorted weapons, and strong-willed in order to keep the powerful beasts they rode under control to begin with. This made them something of a peculiarity among the drow males: unlike the most, they were used to being in control.

Thus, they were prized among the females - the dexterity and stamina were highly sought after, the discipline that came with their profession also. Above all, they had the streaks of free spirit to be tamed and controlled.

The male at the door was one of the finest riders in the detachment currently in Lith My'athar. That alone was the reason why he was chosen to deliver the report this evening…

He kept his eyes to the ground and bowed deeply, ending the motion with one knee on the floor. The door slid shut behind him. Sinvyl smiled and reached down between her thighs, burying her fingers in the half-breed's damp green hair. The dancer was on her elbows and knees, back arched, offering the male at the door a full view of her slightly swaying butt. Had he dared raise his eyes to see it, that is.

"_Speak,_" Sinvyl said softly, exhaling a sigh of pleasure.

The dancer raised her gaze over the curve of Sinvyl's belly. "_What, with my mouth full?_" she said incredulously,

Sinvyl threw her head back onto the pillow and laughed as she grabbed a handful of the dancer's hair and yanked her head up. She was met by the sight of a smirking dark-skinned face, droplets of sweat glistening on the smooth skin of the craned neck and along the tattoo that whirled it's way up the jaw line, across the cheek, the cheekbone and above the female's eye.

"_Isn't she precious,_" Sinvyl giggled happily. The male at the door swallowed, his eyes still trained on the ground.

"_Answer!_" Sinvyl snapped suddenly, as she sat up and lashed out with her whip in one fluid movement while yanking the dancer aside. The tip of the weapon caught the male across the face. He jolted, but kept his eyes on the ground just the same.

"_Yes, Valsharess,_" he breathed. With a silken sound, his mistress slid out of the bed, but all the male could see were her bare feet as she approached him. Her whip slithered across the floor. Instinctively, his muscles tensed.

"_Perhaps you should take a closer look,_" Sinvyl suggested, grabbing the male's hair and jerking his head up.

The dancer stretched on the bed with a snort. "_He can look all he wants, as long as he sticks to just that…_"

Sinvyl regarded the female over the shoulder. The dancer had made her bed preferences clear from the start. Males did not figure on her sexual menu.

"_And if he doesn't…?_" Sinvyl teased, her whip coiling on the ground suggestively.

The dancer shrugged and stretched again. "_You know I don't find pain arousing. It's… boring, really. But, if you insist…_" she rolled off the bed and started towards Sinvyl, swaying her naked hips lasciviously.

Sinvyl watched her sinuous approach and chuckled. She doubted the female was half-aroused and in the mood as she made herself appear. But that was the beauty of it, wasn't it? Half the fun was in acting after all; that was what ssinssrigg was all about.

The half-drow reached out and ran a hand across the small of Sinvyl's back and up her spine. "_Wasn't there a report he was supposed to give before I take out his tongue?_"

Sinvyl laughed, turning back to the male. "_Indeed. Though… I believe I can find a better use for his tongue after all._"

"_Better than mine?_" the dancer teased, sizing Sinvyl up and down with open lust and no regard for station.

"_Perhaps,_" Sinvyl answered, pushing the dancer back with the handle of her whip. "_And perhaps I should reward you for your insolence with a sample of his…_" she mused.

"_Still attached?_" the dancer chuckled hopefully, but even then realizing that the decision was already made.

"_For starters,_" Sinvyl grinned and yanked the male up. "_You can report while you strip,_" she offered with mock generosity. Next second, she whirled around, striking out with her whip. The weapon caught the dancer's side and coiled around her body. A fine sprinkle of red blossomed under the crack. The female didn't so much as flinch; she merely cocked her head and gave Sinvyl a knowing smile.

Sinvyl purred and pulled her weapon back across the dancer's skin. In a rare show of obedience, the female lowered her gaze and stepped forward, until her body was just inches away from the drow. Sinvyl trailed a finger across the gash on the dancer's hip slowly, and then brought it up and smeared the blood across the dancer's lips, parting them slightly. The dancer lifted her gaze and flicked her tongue, licking the fluid off the tip of Sinvyl's finger. Sinvyl smirked. Behind her, a soft 'thump' indicated the male had removed his armor. A 'clunk' later, his weapons followed suit.

"_Speak,_" Sinvyl commanded without looking his way.

"_The scouts are still in the tunnels. They…_" he hesitated a moment as he unbuckled his boots, "_They managed to map out very little so far,_" he finished quietly.

"_Oh?_" The Valsharess did not sound overly displeased but there was a steely edge in her voice nonetheless. Her hand was lost somewhere between the dancer's thighs.

"_One abishai party did find a network of tunnels used by the iblith the Seer sent away,_" the male added quickly in hopes that the news would improve his mistress' mood a bit.

"_Have they now?_" Sinvyl said, her eyes still locked on the dancer. The dancer raised an eyebrow as she caressed Sinvyl's neck.

"_Some result,_" she said derisively, "_It's not like there are any Eilistraeeans left to fodder-taunt,_" she finished with a smirk and trailed a hand across Sinvyl's belly.

Sinvyl chuckled. "_You truly __are__ insolent._"

The dancer shrugged, bending her knees slightly so she could bite Sinvyl's breast. "_Why not? You like it._"

"_I might get tired of it,_" Sinvyl warned, a drop of ice splashing across the silk of her voice.

The dancer laughed and pulled up. "_I'm sure you will,_" she whispered into her ear, "_but not just yet._"

"_And what will you do when I do?_" Sinvyl teased, grabbing the dancer's hip and pulling her close so that their bellies touched.

"_I'll find some other way to please you,_" the dancer chuckled and licked Sinvyl's ear.

Sinvyl pushed the female back and laughed heartily. "_I'm sure you'll try._" She snapped her fingers, pointing the male towards the bed. "_You could start by telling me about those tunnel routes,_" she said half-jokingly as she started towards the bed herself, pulling the dancer along.

The dancer shook her head, sending strands of wet hair across her face. "_Fools that they were, their foolery stopped just short of actually handing me the maps._"

Sinvyl regarded her for a moment and decided she would not get bored with the dancer any time soon. The female was fascinating. For one, she kept telling her the truth, no matter what she asked. It was a complete novelty to Sinvyl.

"_So inconsiderate of them,_" she said with mock sympathy as she slid into the bed between her two pets for the evening. "_No wonder you were so eager to join my side._"

"_Actually,_" the dancer smirked, trailing a hand across Sinvyl's body, "_I joined your side to get between your legs,_" she said, sliding her hand exactly there.

Sinvyl laughed yet again before she pulled the dancer over herself and pushed her onto the male on the other side of the bed. Not a novice in being an asset in the games of ssinssrigg, the male wrapped an arm around the half-drow and expertly spread her legs with the other.

The dancer stiffened and gave Sinvyl a pout. "_Whatever makes you think I'd prefer a male over a female? …Especially you?_" she complained. Still, she was only half-jesting, Sinvyl knew.

"_You might not,_" she said slyly, sliding her hand between the dancer's spread legs. She pinched her clit sharply, causing the dancer to breath out a small, pained gasp. "_But you really need to learn some manners._" She absentmindedly twisted the sensitive piece of flesh between her fingers, enjoying the sight of the dancer's hip bucking in the male's firm grasp. "_And manners are always fun to teach,_" she chuckled wickedly.

The dancer hissed and, before the male had time to react, slipped her hand between her hip and his arm, grabbed his genitals roughly and yanked hard. The male yelped and released his grip.

"_He has none,_" the dancer grinned, "_Is this how you teach 'em?_"

Sinvyl burst into laughter. "_You really have neither respect nor fear, __nek_._ Why do I put up with you?_"

"_For exactly those reasons,_" the dancer snickered, wriggling out of the gasping male's grasp and pressing her body against Sinvyl's. "_Though you are wrong about the respect part; I __do__ respect you,_" she slid her hand down Sinvyl's back and squeezed her butt. "_I just don't kiss your ass... inviting as it is._"

Sinvyl narrowed her eyes and bit the dancer's neck. "_Insolent,_" she murmured.

"_But you like it. Because it's new,_" the dancer purred, pulling her head back and looking Sinvyl in the eye. The male behind her regained his senses but remained passive for the time being, awaiting Sinvyls' lead.

"_You like it because it's new and therefore intriguing; you like it because you like to have a new game to play... and a new pet to play it with. You like it, because I __do__ know my place, yet dare what others don't._" She smiled seductively and brought her face close to Sinvyl's. "_Because no one else dares give you a lip. …Oh yes,_" she added as an afterthought, "_and because I'm damn good in bed._"

Sinvyl grabbed the dancer's chin and bit her lower lip before kissing her harshly. The female _was_ right, she decided; she couldn't deny she found her "free-willed slave" attitude intriguing as much as arousing. And it _was_ a novelty to have someone dance the line so boldly, without a slightest regard for consequences, regardless of how painful they may be.

"_So is Relon,_" she smirked at her audacious pet. "_He just might teach you to enjoy male company in bed after all._" She gave the male a slight nod as she spoke. The male complied immediately, sliding a hand around the dancer's waist and giving her a light bite on the neck. His hair covered his face as he did so, thus hiding a momentary flash of fear in his eyes. The fact that the Valsharess knew him by his name was not necessarily a good thing.

"_He can't,_" the dancer insisted firmly but to Relon's relief, did not back the statement by another painful yank. There would be plenty of pain to be had, he knew, and he wasn't too eager to get the first serving too early on.

"_He'd better,_" Sinvyl purred wickedly and fingered her whip lovingly. The dancer returned her grin in earnest and decided to play along. Or so the male hoped.

Minutes blended into one another as the trio writhed around each other in sweat and droplets of blood; soft moans and gasps of pain rose up simultaneously, intercepted by an occasional whip crack or a sharp slap. The male performed to the best of his ability, drowning out the pain and focusing on his appointed task for the night, but sandwiched between an unwilling dancer and a demanding mistress turned out to be harder then he had expected. In the end, he only hoped the half-breed would just fake an orgasm and be done with it, lest he ends up as his predecessors in the Valsharess' bed – backs flayed, muscles torn, skin peeled off their genitals… probably a whip handle shoved up the ass, too.

Hours later, as he left the room and the two chuckling females behind, his whole body felt like one huge wound. Although claiming pain was not her aphrodisiac, the half-breed proved to be as capable of inflicting it as any female he knew, and with about as equal glee. His shirt rubbed painfully against his lashed back and he could feel a warm stain spreading across the back of his pants. He tried to find some consolation in the fact that he was at least allowed to leave the room alive.

_& & &  
_

Sinvyl watched the male stagger out. The bedsheets were crumpled, damp and covered with blood, the distinct smell of female fluids and male sperm hanging heavily in the air. Sinvyl inhaled the mixture deeply and turned to the female beside her.

"_Did you know that erinyes can take both female and male guise? Perhaps we should have one of them next time._"

The dancer considered it for a moment. "_That… would be more interesting, yes,_" she decided eventually and chuckled. She squirmed free of a bed sheet trapping her leg and sat up. "_Shouldn't there be some smoke in this place?_"

"_Smoke?_"

The dancer grinned. "_One after sex? It's traditional…_"

Sinvyl laughed. "_L'elend zhah alurl_, _yes?_"

The dancer paused, thinking about it. She rolled onto her stomach and placed her chin in one hand. "_Yes…_" she said slowly, "_And that makes me wonder – Why baatezu?_" She blew a strand of hair off her eye and gave Sinvyl an inquisitive look. "_I thought tanar'ri is traditional._"

"_Oh, you'd like to know, wouldn't you?_" Sinvyl teased, running a hand down the dancer's back. The dancer said nothing. Ah well… why not?

"_The Queen is going silent, as you no doubt know._" True, it _was_ a knowledge the priestesses wanted to keep secret at all costs, but the late Promenade leader knew about it already and so... "_But she does provide her faithful with opportunities nonetheless. And,_" she purred with all the arrogance and self-satisfaction of her rank, "_I seized mine._"

"_With the baatezu?_" the dancer seemed genuinely puzzled.

"_Why not? Remember: 'Her webs encompass all',_" Sinvyl quoted. "_You must have learned at least as much in Arach-Tinilith._"

The dancer looked up for a moment, as if digging through memories. "_Well… I suppose I must have at some point. I mostly learned all about meal-serving and dungeon-scrubbing._"

Sinvyl chuckled, but stopped abruptly. The dancer's voice took on an unusually hollow edge near the end of the sentence. She grabbed her chin and forced her head close.

"_Ah, yes. Your sire, correct?_"

The dancer sighed. "_Yes…_"

Sinvyl blinked, an evil smile spreading across her face. "_Why, what was that, my little nek? Nostalgia?_" she leaned closer, almost nose-to-nose with the dancer. "_Pain, perhaps?_" she taunted. "_Don't tell me you actually had…_" she said the next word as if it were some sort of an orc " …_'feelings' for that male?_"

"_Well.. it __was__ a bit of a shocker, seeing him in all those places at once,_" the dancer admitted. "_And he was a hell to scrub off, especially while the bits of him were still squirming._"

Sinvyl laughed. "_Well said, but do work on it a bit more. Your tone betrays you._" She slid her hand off the dancer's chin and grabbed her hair instead. "_And it wouldn't do you any good if I suddenly got the impression you think you might have a…score to settle with me still._"

The dancer looked at her as if she just sprouted another head. "_Score?_"

Sinvyl slapped her. "_Don't act stupid! You know what I mean!_"

"_Vengeance?_" the dancer guessed. "_No… I admit, I did entertain the thought for a while but… I got my fill with Ra'sin._"

Sinvyl was taken slightly aback. Once again, the dancer spoke the truth. If it were anyone else, it would be boring, really; of course she must have contemplated revenge at some point. Anyone else would have taken great pains to conceal the fact, even if they knew Sinvyl knew already. It was a game of verbal ripostes and Sinvyl enjoyed playing it greatly. But this… This bluntness was even more amusing, somehow. Refreshing, if nothing else.

"_But why settle for the lesser vengeance?_" she quarried, honestly curious. "_After all, he was but an informant._"

The dancer snickered. "_Precisely._"

"_Explain!_"

"_Well… I'm not sure I can, really, but I'll try. See, If Izzlyn was a fool enough not to spot a traitor in his ranks, that's his fault, right?_"

Sinvyl nodded. This promised to be an overture into yet another twisted loop of logic the dancer had already displayed on several occasions during the past week or so.

"_And if you planted a traitor and then came to wipe out a Shadow conclave, well… That's what Spider Queen's priestesses do. Why should I hold a grudge over it?_"

Sinvyl smirked, but said nothing. Truth again, and apparently, there was more to come.

"_So,_" the dancer went on, "_My only relevant grudge was that someone snatched a safe-haven from me when I really needed one and the one directly responsible for that was Ra'sin,_" she concluded.

Sinvyl grinned. "_Acceptable. I still won't let you bring your weapons into my chambers, though… In case you decide to reconsider._"

The dancer laughed. "_Why would I do something like that? I can never attain high rank or station myself. But you… You are well on your way up and here I am, your new prized asset with all the wealth and power that affords. I'd be an idiot to, as they say on the surface, bite the hand that feeds._" She grinned and bit Sinvyl's finger lightly. "_Except like this._"

Sinvyl returned the grin. "_Ah, but what about that little thing that prisoner in the dungeons told me about last night? Your little... flirt with some really unsavory characters._" The dancer blinked in puzzlement, still holding Sinvyl's finger between her teeth. "_He said…_"

"_Screamed,_" the dancer corrected, the word coming out muffled due to the finger in her mouth.

"_All right, screamed,_" Sinvyl conceded with a laugh, "_that you brought about a rather shadow-y presence into the city. Old habits die hard, perhaps, hmmm…?_"

The dancer released the finger and laughed loudly. "_But of course! I merely have to snap my fingers and gods start dancing to my tune! …No,_" she stopped laughing abruptly, "_I merely tried to get all the angles covered. I had no idea that you could lift the Geas from me, I had no idea that you would and I certainly had no idea whether you'd take me in or not._" She shrugged. "_I just took a shot in the dark and hoped it would amount to something._"

Sinvyl smirked. "_Your schemes almost backfired on you._"

The dancer shrugged again. "_Well, I'm only __half__-drow after all._"

Sinvyl threw her head back and laughed. "_And a full-time slut!_" she said happily, grabbed the dancer's hair and forced her head down. The dancer giggled and slid between Sinvyl's thighs again.

_**& & &  
**_

_**Skullport…**_

Dirty, lawless, perilous… All those words could describe the Port of Shadows, yet none gives the vile place the credit it deserves. In the end, perhaps 'selfishness' describes it best, for Skullport is, above all, a place of trade – slave trade, predominantly – and is run on a day-to-day basis, not by a single ruler, but by numerous rivaling trade enclaves who maintain status quo out of desire for profit, simple convenience and sheer laziness. And yes, fear, for in Skullport, disturbances are bad. In Skullport, disturbances invite the attention of the Skulls, and where Skulls are concerned, nothing is certain save that, whatever they choose to do does not bode well for the offenders. And yet…

The biggest disturbance in the recent history of Skullport was almost upon its gates. For months, reports of the marching army flew into the Port of Shadows - not enough to disturb the trade yet, but enough to disturb its inhabitants greatly. For a marching army means a stop to trade and stopping the trade was the one taboo no one was willing to break. All else aside, the Skulls demanded the trade runs smoothly, always. And to ensure that end, tentative alliances were being formed now, the likes of which Skullport had not seen before.

The Dark Daggers and the Chosen of Eilistraee of the Promenade, The Kraken Society, the various warring lieutenants of The Iron Ring, agents of the Arcane Brotherhood and many more all had their bases or interests set in port of Shadows. Never before had they been forced to work this closely together, if only for a short period of time. This "alliance" attracted the attention of the Skulls, but they had yet to express either their support or disdain for it; mysterious as they were, the Skulls always protected the Port fiercely and with all they had – if they tolerated the state of almost war preparations now, it was only because an even greater danger loomed on the cavernous horizon. Skulkers could only hope that, when the time comes, the Skulls would prove an equal match for the forces of Baator that were headed their way.

And all that without even mentioning the virtual flood of the surface dwellers that washed across the filthy streets these days. The Lords of Waterdeep themselves had an interest in keeping Skullport safe – mainly because, as many Skulkers hazarded, the damnable bastards wanted their drainage ditch unclogged. Whatever their reasons, the Waterdeep Lords sent out a call far and wide for any able-bodied, money-deprived fool willing to risk life and limb in the oncoming defense of the Port. Moreover, even prominent figures of the city itself were said to be seen –in secrecy, of course- meeting with their Skullport counterparts as of late.

The city itself was still running as ever, but under the murky surface, the undercurrents were stirring, and nobody liked the shape of the fins that occasionally cut through the waves. One could tell the times were turbulent indeed, when even the cosmopolitan Skullport would dub the fellows that rolled in its bedsheets as strange.

And as the first of Kimmuriel's agents approached the city, they were about to grow stranger still.

* * *

_On section titles, don't ask me how Jane Austen ended up in here - I have no idea. ;) Incidentally, Smoke And Mirrors is a title of Neil Gaiman's compilation of short(ish) stories. Be that as it may, I used all these titles because they just seemed so fitting. /grin/  
_

**Coming up next:** _A view at things from a higher vantage point, some fine Planescape lore and an improptu maths lesson!_


	36. The Devil’s Arithmetic

**mandatory author's note:** Long time ago, I made it clear that the Cania chapter of the game, in short, sucks royally. However, the very premise behind HotU is that, at teh beginning, the Valsharess somehow managed to bring Mephistopheles to heel. Since that is so, I set out to offer a canonically proper alternative to that dreck.  
To that end, I shoved my nose into every last Planescape sourcebook I could lay my hands on. About two years ago, I also grabbed one of my Planescape-expert friends by the throat and ran my ideas past him. His insights and comments were invalubale in giving the plot and the backstory behind it its final shape. This chapter is the result.  
And if this one doesn't show once and for all just how -and in how many ways- is the game version of events completely idiotic, I don't know what will. ;)

Source materials for this chapter include: **1.** "Faces Of Evil: The Fiends" Planescape sourcebook (introduction quote, all italic quotes plus the select baatezu laws and the bulk of information presented come from there). **2.** Various other Planescape and FR sourcebooks (two italic-underlined quotes and general canon information). **3.** Maths textbook (quotes marked with "**#**" ...not that you can mistake them for anything else). **4.** Several gallons of coffee and more cigarettes than I care to acknowledge. **5.** My sick brain.

On a side-note, the structure of this chapter was fun to work with, but coming up with it and writing it as intended gave me so many headaches I cannot begin to describe. In the end, though, I am _very_ pleased with the result. ;)

Replies, discussions and random author drabbles on the forum...

* * *

"A good century and a half ahead of his time, Leibniz proposed an algebra of logic, an algebra that would specify the rules for manipulating logical concepts in the manner that ordinary algebra specifies the rules for manipulating numbers"

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 23 **

**The Devil's Arithmetic**

"_Cut a deal with a baatezu? No thanks. I'd rather cut my throat."  
-Tarsheva Longreach, experienced planewalker_

_**Reference System, the defining of**_

In general, what most berks form a Prime know about the Lower Planes can be summed up thus: "In Abyss, there are demons and in Nine Hells, there are devils. One are chaotic, one are lawful. Both are evil. And they fight."

This, of course, does not even begin to describe, let alone explain the true nature of the Lower Planes. It describes the fiends that inhabit them even less. So here, in short, is the dark of it:

If one were to stretch a line across the Planes, one could do it in either the Good/Evil or Chaos/Order direction. The Lower Planes rest on the bottom of the Good/Evil axis. On one end, there lie the realms of Chaos; on the other, there is Order. To a Clueless, these concepts mean little – they are abstract ideas, mere guidelines on the paths of their lives. The Planes, however, _are_ those ideas. Not just the concepts, but the very quintessence of ideas they represent. The creatures those Planes spawn are, by extension, embodiments of said ideas.

"_Their own texts say they were born from the churning will of Baator, their forms and functions spelled out as they stepped forth from the mathematics of evil._"

Nine Hells, as some Clueless tend to call it, or Baator, as the Plane is called by those who know better, is both a place and an idea of pure Order and pure Evil. Consequently, its inhabitants, the baatezu, personify those two idea(l)s. And of all the baatezu, the highest among them – the Lords of the Nine – embody them the most.

"_Supposedly, the lords are about on the same level as powers, but they've not defined themselves either way as of yet. Regardless, they're said to embody the layers they rule over."_

Baator consists of nine layers. Don't get sidetracked by your Clueless way of thinking now – the Outer Planes are both physical and metaphysical in nature. What defines a layer is not simple three dimensions of space and one of time. Every layer is separate, yet each is also infinite. And what defines its nature is the Lord who rules over it, just as the layer defines the lord in turn.

Cania, the eight layer of Baator, is a place of frigid ice, the cold of its frozen wastes worse than even the chill of Stygia. Freezing winds sweep across it, moaning incessantly between the huge glaciers of crystal ice. The hugest among those is the great Nargus, crowned by Mephistar – the citadel of ice from which the Arch-Duke Mephistopheles rules.

"_Mephistopheles is a schemer and although he has told Asmodeus to his face that he will rule hell in Asmodeus' stead, the Lord of the Nine allows him to remain in his position"_

The fiends compete with one another constantly. It is not a matter of simple competition as the Primes know it. No, it is a clash of ideas instead. Baator represents the quintessence of Orderly Evil on the Planes. The quintessence of Baator is represented by its ninth layer, Nessus. The quintessence of Nessus is embodied in its ruler, Asmodeus, The Arch Devil of all Hells. Therefore, the quintessence of Order and Evil on the Planes is defined by Baator, is defined by Nessus, is defined by Asmodeus. In other words, as far as multiverse is concerned, Order and Evil equals Asmodeus. Whoever unseats Asmudeus will get to substitute him in that equation. Mephistopheles knows this, and runs his schemes accordingly, for in his heart of hearts, he knows that _he_, and not Asmodeus, is the one to set the Planes straight.

It is said that this amuses Asmodeus to no end.

"_The baatezu society is based on lies, betrayal and one-upmanship. Sparked by envy, greed, and hate, the baatezu scheme and plan their whole long lives, looking to rise through the ranks at the expense of others. Fiends who excel at treachery and backstabbing rise high, and quickly at that. Such qualities are exactly the sort prized by their superiors._"

Whether the rumors are true or not is of little consequence. What matters is that, as defined by their Plane of origin, the fiends operate in a certain manner inherent to their natures. With baatezu, that manner is Logic. And what represents the logic better than mathematics? No matter how twisted, complicated or uncanny a scheme a fiend weaves, a corresponding mathematical function exists to describe it.

_& & &  
_

**# **The mathematical concept of a function expresses dependence between two quantities, one of which is given (the independent variable, argument of the function, or its "input") and the other produced (the dependent variable, value of the function, or "output"). A function associates a single output to each input element drawn from a fixed set. **#**

_**Input Variables, the sets**_

Be warned, berk – When it comes to fiends, they are not operating within a simple system a mortal blood is used to. They are dealing with the Planes themselves and their reference systems stretch to encompass the scope far greater than you can imagine. What the Prime Material Planes get is, at the most, distant echoes of what the fiends truly dream of.

"_Within the breast of every being, there's a space that echoes to some feature of cosmos, a sound that sums up the being's desires, hates, fate, and most hidden self.  
The spoken (true) name is the total summation of the fiend's essence; the blood who utters it twists the desires of the fiend so that it's got no choice but to respond. That's why fiends constantly try to dig up secret names of their enemies – so they can pass the names on to mortals who can punish the named fiends or bind them into service._"

The bait had been set ages ago. A rumor, whispered across the Planes; information, sold at the price even kings would be hard-pressed to meet. Wrapped in layers upon layers of careful intrigue, laying dormant for centuries on end - an ancient tome, hidden behind bars of peril, lies and deception… And waiting to be found.

It had to be like that; only in this fashion could he ensure that the mortal who found it was indeed possessed of the qualities required: Insightful, to recognize the potential hidden in the vague hints of a hidden treasure. Ambitious, to even begin the search. Cunning and resourceful, to actually succeed in spite of all the obstacles presented along the way. And finally, powerful enough to make use of the treasure uncovered.

Just powerful, though. Not 'worthy' as well. There was no such thing as a "worthy" mortal. But there was, occasionally, such a thing as a useful one.

"_The lords don't give a fig about the Blood War, leaving it all in the hands of The Dark Eight. They also make pacts with leatherheads on the Prime Material Plane, promising strength, wealth and sometimes immortality to those who follow their tenets._"

Normally, dealing with mortals of any sort falls under the jurisdiction of Furcas and his Ministry of Mortal Relations. Occasionally, though, a lord might take a personal interest - if it serves his personal designs to do so. One only needs to be patient enough and, in accordance with the law of large numbers, sooner or later, suitable circumstances will arise. And a suitable mortal will present itself to the mastermind behind the scheme. Align both in a proper grid, and the wheels of the fiendish mechanism will start turning to its creator's desires.

And the waiting paid off. Eventually, a mortal _did_ emerge from the endless sea of the Primes and called the Arch Duke of Cania forth.

"_The names of noble baatezu are more often used to summon and bind lesser fiends. Only a fool would use a noble's name to call the noble itself._"

And only a fool could possibly think that it is even possible to summon and bind a creature that is not only an Arch Devil, thus one step above even the nobles, but the embodiment of a very layer it rules over. To summon Mephistopheles was all but to summon Cania itself. Not even Asmodeus could do that. …Easily, anyway. It took an ambitious fool from a Prime to imagine such idiocy was possible in the first place. His summoner was no exception to the rule. But that suited the Lord of Cania just fine. For unlike his summoner, _he_ was not a fool by any stretch of imagination.

"_They're partly creatures of symbology as well as physical form, so their natures change bit by bit over the millennia._"

For all the layers of peril, all the obstacles he placed down the road, it still took a foolish mind of a mortal to think that a creature such as he would ever let his _true_ name fall into anyone's hands. A false one, however…

"_The name evolves with the fiend, changing as much as the creature does._"

One little syllable, just one small vowel written down wrongly, and the deed was done. The supposed true name has truly no sway over the fiend summoned by it. But not being summoned was not Mephistopheles' design. He would be called forth and he would answer accordingly; it was just that he had no intentions of being _truly_ bound by the spell.

Of course, since the altered name is still derived from the real true name, the tug of the spell would still be evident. The trick was to alter the name in such a fashion that it "rings" true to the one who utters it; to give the proper impression of binding power to the summoner brave (and foolish) enough to try.

"_A fiend called by an old version of its true name isn't bound nearly as well, and it'll delight in showing the summoner just how free it is._"

That, or propose a deal instead – one that, to a mortal, would seem to hold mutual benefit for both parties involved. Usually, the contracts made in such a fashion always had the same clauses attached to them. The usual stuff – wealth, power, conquest… that sort of thing. Their petty ambitions always seem to draw mortals towards conquest, Mephistopheles often mused. So let them have it, then, he had decided long ago. Let the mortals take whatever his offered assistance would yield onto them… And in doing so, let them spread the spirit of Baator, of Cania with them.

"_Most of all, a Prime is a wellspring of faith. The Outer Planes run on belief, and the fiends thrive on it. So, if the creatures journey to the Prime and convince the Clueless to fear and respect them, they gain the strength of that belief. That alone is reason enough to terrorize mortals on the Prime._"

But terrorizing is so crude. Manipulation is so much better. Land and power to the conquering mortal – a fertile soil of belief for the fiend. One more foothold on a Prime for Baator; one less foothold on a Prime for the Abyss. And one more source of power for Mephistopheles of the Eighth. One more piece in the struggle for supremacy, the schemes of which stretched far beyond the scope of one single Prime. Enough pieces aligning on his side of the board, and in due time, it will be Mephistopheles of the Ninth instead.

"_The baatezu don't have a religion as such. They rarely offer up their lives in prayerful service. Their religion is law; their rituals evil. That's all they strive for, though they may manipulate mortals __through__ religion._"

And now, one of the powers revered on the Primes was fading away:

"The Spider Queen", as she is known to her followers; "The Overbloated Tanar'ri Bitch Who Somehow Attained Godhood", as she is known to some other and - to his thinking – better informed parties.

It was not yet a common knowledge on the Planes. For now, there were only ripples of disturbance floating about, but soon enough, the shift in power would become known and a Planar game of "seize what you can" would begin. And once it does, "All Hells would break loose" as some Primes would say it. Mephistopheles thought the phrase ironically accurate.

In such games, it is not power, but information that determines the winners. The best spoils go to those who enter the game forearmed with proper knowledge on what is truly going on as well as proper ideas on how to best apply said knowledge in the course of the game.

The baatezu information-gathering structures are recognized to be one of the finest ones on the Planes. No less can be said about Mephistopheles' private network. With both resources under his command, the Arch Duke of Eighth was among the first ones to notice something was amiss in the Demonweb Pits. And he was fully determined to make the most of it, in every way he could imagine; more to the point, in every way he would design.

_& & &  
_

**# **A function can be defined by any mathematical condition relating each argument to the corresponding output value. Commonly, a function is defined by a formula, or (more generally) an algorithm. **#**

_**Extrapolation, the dissertation of **_

Chaos – that most despicable taint of the multiverse – is sadly a tenet embraced by many on the Planes. And yet, but a handful of them truly adhere to the tenet they claim to follow. Only those created from the Chaos and by the Chaos, like tanar'ri for instance, can be said to be _truly_ chaotic. Everyone else merely aspire to it. Here is the dark of it:

Only insanity is truly chaotic, and even then, the insanity follows some inward logic and course of action. Anything not truly random – and nothing save the Abyss truly is – is governed by order and laws. No society can exist without having _some_ order inherent in its roots. And where there is a base, there is room for its expansion.

"_The average basher is so programmed that what he believes to be simple reflexes are really reactions he learned a long time ago. If a baatezu gets a chance to study or question a body to any degree – and the higher the baatezu, the less time it needs – the monster will have a decent read on the body's instincts and reflexes._"

At first, Mephistopheles thought it another waste of time. The one who won his prize belonged to a race known as "drow". And drow, as he had learned, were the race that, for the most part, (foolishly) venerated the powers of Chaos and as such, were of little use to him. But then he took a better look and a whole new world of possibilities inherent in the race opened up before his hell-imbued eyes.

Chaotic – That is how the drow described themselves. But Mephistopheles observed them; studied them. He learned of their ways and their culture and the more he learned, the more delighted he became. For what he had learned was that, while they indeed paid lip service to Chaos, the drow were, in truth, the creatures governed by Law. Oh, they broke and bended their laws however and whenever it suited their needs, but that didn't make them children of Chaos at all. Quite to the contrary, what Mephistopheles learned of their race almost unfailingly coincided with the very laws the baatezu themselves based their existence upon:

**I** _Strength lies only in unity_

He had observed the drow of Menzoberranzan and their ever-going inter-House wars. And he had learned that, regardless of how much individual struggle for power marked their existence, the drow were still bound together by common goals of their race as a whole. He had observed examples of it in abundance – the dominance of Underdark that they constantly sought as a race, the uniform religion that almost all of them shared, the racial hatred for their surface cousins, to name but a few. Opposing each other, they still stood against their enemies united.

**II** _The strong rule the weak_

With all mortal races, this was really a given. With drow, however, station was one of the basic axioms of their existence. Within their strict hierarchical system, it was simply impossible for anyone but the best – the most ruthless, most ambitious and most powerful – to rise up. Only the strongest rose to the top in their society. All beneath them were not as strong, therefore they were weak. And the strong ruled them, as it should be.

**III** _Failure leads to punishment_

And such punishments they were! Mephistopheles observed the drow justice being dealt first-hand and the display pleased him immensely. Truly, the drow lashed out hard and true against those who failed to weave their webs of power and intrigue properly. So much so that they reflected the same practice on Baator almost perfectly.

**IV** _Do to others as they have done to you_

**a)** _when possible, do to others before they do to you_  
**b)** _Treat your inferiors as your superiors treat you_  
**c)** _learn your lessons from above and below_

He had observed the priestesses-in-training and the way the senior students treated the juniors beneath them. He watched the juniors treating _their_ juniors accordingly. He watched them plot and scheme to prevent the possible schemes against them. Even their children learned those lessons in full; if there were siblings of similar age in the House, they sometimes learned it as early as the age of twelve.

**V** _Haste makes waste_

**a)** _Revenge is best tempered by time_  
**b)** _Plan carefully and leave no evidence_  
**c)** _There is no crime if there is no proof_

Drow harbored their grudges like no other mortal race Mephistopheles knew. They nurtured them close to their hearts and always, always attempted to strike back at those who've done them wrong. Of course, the offenders knew this as well, and often, went well out of their ways to protect themselves against the vengeance that was bound to come. This made them hone their plotting skills to perfection, turning them into masters of subterfuge and intrigue. And their justice system made sure they learned the art of covering up their tracks as well. Punishment was dealt, not for the attempt, but for poor execution of it. Successful attempts were silently applauded. As long as there were no proofs left behind, the crimes never happened. Such was the way of drow. And such was the way of Baator.

**VI** _None may rise unless another falls_

**a)** _There's only so much room at the top_  
**b)** _If you would ascend, you must first topple another_

The beauties of drow hierarchy did not escape Mephistopheles's careful eye either. Just like on Baator, the system was rigid in its structure, yet flexible enough to allow promising individuals a way to greater glory. In accordance to the finest traditions of Baator, the drow, too, recognized the need to test their mettle against those above them in order to rise to the top. And in doing so, the weak were culled and the strong gained the upper hand that they rightfully earned and therefore deserved. It fueled healthy ambition; it insured that the most powerful ones maintained control over the society as a whole; and at the same time, it allowed for fresh blood to purge the old one that grew stale. Much like Mephistopheles and Asmodeus, really…

So there it was. By carefully placing his own groundwork well in advance, when a shift of power came (or was about to come) about on the Planes, he had a veritable treasure under his wing, just waiting to be put to proper use: For spreading the taint of Baator where it had never been spread before and for spreading the power base of Mephistopheles alongside with it.

In the intertwining games of fiendish power struggles, every angle needs to be covered properly. To do any less is unthinkable. To disregard the goals of baatezu as a race is impossible. The best path to take is the one that binds personal and global aims into the same function by means of an appropriate algorithm.

_& & &  
_

**#** An algorithm may be viewed as controlled logical deduction. This notion may be expressed as: Algorithm logic + control. The logic component expresses the axioms that may be used in the computation and the control component determines the way in which deduction is applied to the axioms. **#**

_**Algorithm, the account of**_

Rulership. Power. Control. Those are the things every blood strives for. To rise above the ranks of the common rabble and ascend to the very top of the social ladder. To rule. And to rule others meant to wield power – power over lives, deaths and every other aspect of existence of those beneath. And to have such power meant to be in control. And having control meant being able to dictate the rules, to be the one to tell the rest of the world what to think, what to do… what to dream. To tell the world what things _are_ and to make the world run accordingly.

This is one thing that remains the same throughout the multiverse, same, on grand scales as well as small ones. On the grand scale, Mephistopheles would tell the multiverse what Order and Evil truly are. On the small scale, Sinvyl Bar'ritar would dictate the rules to the world around her. And that was as it should be. Both worked hard to get where they are.

A bit more than two years ago, no Matron on the Ruling Council of Menzoberranzan gave House Bar'ritar more than a cursory glance. A low-ranking House, barely in the ranks of noble houses at all, its daily routines and works of her priestesses went unnoticed by everyone save the Spider Queen who saw and ruled all. But all those things were about to change. For a bit more than two years ago, a disturbance occurred in the ranks of the clergy that ruled the city supreme.

The Spider Queen was not answering their calls. Always fickle, it was not uncommon for L'loth to favor one House, or one priestess strongly one day and switch her dark blessings to another the next. But this time, it was different. The priestesses' spells were failing far more often than was normal, even for L'loth to allow.

It took a long time before the clergy reluctantly admitted that fact to one another. One could never be too careful in the world of drow; one never knew if her spells were failing because of the works of another rather than more general trend. It turned out that it was. The priestesses found themselves wishing the former option had been true instead.

The Spider Queen was still there. They felt her in their prayers, their offerings had been accepted and many of the spells they asked for were being granted. But the power itself was flickering. The dark voice of L'loth would ring clear in their heads in one moment, only to grow distant and muffled the next.

L'loth's fading, of course, remained a close-guarded secret; it did not take much imagination to conceive all that could happen should the knowledge become widespread. And amidst that ongrowing anxiety, one priestess found her way to the top. But her rise to the top started long before that.

A budding priestess, with excellent grasp of lore of the Outer Planes, uncanny knack for gathering resources and driven by ambition as any drow, Sinvyl Bar'ritar had long devoted herself to studying Lower Planes in earnest. For while she was as devout as any priestess was expected to be, she had long ago realized one simple truth of her society: drow were not devout to L'loth – they were devout to power. It was just that L'loth was on the top of the power scale and thus, was the supreme source of power to those who would follow her word. Sinvyl never dreamed of turning away from her goddess. But she did, however, explore other avenues, seeking not to substitute one power source for another but to find a second to augment the first. For she knew that, no matter how powerful a priestess she becomes and how many steps up she takes (disposing of her mother being the first one she made), she could never hope to take her House, and thus herself, anywhere near the power structure on top. Unless, that is, she found some source of power that no one else had.

What always struck her as limiting was the drow insistence on dealing exclusively with tanar'ri. True, it took great strength to bind and control such wild, chaotic fiends, but in the end, all it took was brute force to accomplish the deed. And while she fully acknowledged the value of sheer strength, she always knew it was much more effective if backed up by a keen intellect. And so, In the privacy of her chambers, Sinvyl devoted her time and resources on exploring a path almost no other had, and begun sharpening her wits by pitting it against the true masters of bureaucratic manipulation – the baatezu.

"_A summoned baatezu, even if completely bound by abjurations, will always try to exchange their services instead of providing them for free. Most summoners (especially novices) fall for this ruse. Canny mortals know they don't have to trade services at all: they simply make their demands of the fiends. _"

But there was a ruse within a ruse. After almost a century of practice, Sinvyl grew versed in dealing with the baatezu as few others were and she learned well when to exercise force and when to strike a deal. And when the time came for her most outrageous summoning attempt yet, she was prepared well in advance and never even tried to make demands of Mehpistopheles once his avatar projected itself into her summoning circle. She offered him a deal instead and one he was more than willing to accept:

"_Mephistopheles displays to the public world a face of charm, wit, and civility."_

In the light (or dark) of recent events, the casting power wielded by the clergy had been diminished. Sinvyl's was no exception. But Mephistopheles, almost a deity himself, with cult followings scattered across the Planes, could provide an alternate source of power to boost her spells. And that was only the beginning…

In a matter of months, House Bar'ritar rose to prominence, achieving glory far greater than its low station would ever permit. And she played her game with craftiness few others in the city could match.

It took her less than half a year to subjugate Menzoberranzan to her will. Those who would stand beside her were rewarded; those who would not were crushed under her merciless heel. It really wasn't all that difficult to accomplish. Sinvyl spun her webs of coercion and intrigue wisely, her explanations and the rewards she offered ringing sweet music of power in other Matrons' ears. She would not rule the city – that was never her plan; the ruling structure functioned well for centuries untold and she had no desires to fix things that weren't broken. All she demanded was respect and unerring support for her plans. And her plans were grand indeed.

Once, there was a Matron Mother Baenre who attempted a conquest on surface world. At the first glance, Sinvyl's scheme was no different than hers. But only at the first glance.

Instead of conquest for the sake of conquest, Sinvyl's plan offered much more. She would be given soldiers and fodder by all the houses within the city and she would send her assassins to trap Halaster of the Undermountain. She could not afford to slay the mage for it was he who prevented the Undermountain from collapsing onto itself; moreover, it was he who stood as the balancing factor against the mysterious designs of the volatile, unpredictable Skulls. But she could entrap the mage, thus clearing the paths of the Undermountain for a conquering force to strike out at the city of Waterdeep above. Riches and slaves would pour into Menzoberranzan unhindered, with only the Port of Shadows standing in the way. Something Sinvyl planned to remedy as well.

As it turned out, Halaster was freed sooner than anyone thought he would be and the access to Waterdeep leading through his domain was cut off once again. But Skullport remained a prize in and of itself and that was where Sinvyl's designs took her next.

But what of Mezoberranzan? What possible gains could the priestesses of the Spider Queen get out of that deal? More to the point, wasn't relying on power of an Arch Devil a treachery to the Spider? It was crucial that the Matrons be convinced that the first was worth their while and that the second was not true. And it was on that step of the way where Sinvyl proved her capabilities the most.

Binding Halaster was in itself a feat few, if any, accomplished before. It was a testimony to Sinvyl's own prowess and the most pointed sign of her power yet. And conquering Skullport, a feat never accomplished before, would send a clear message both above and below that Menzoberranzan ruled supreme. And while normally, the surface dwellers, at least, would gather up and attempt to strike back, with the city so positioned in the global Underdark power structure, other drow cities would fall in line behind it, back it up and drive the surface dwellers' forces away. And from there onward… the only limit would be Sinvyl's ambition and imagination.

And as far as the supposed "treason" issue went? Ah, but there _was_ no treason at all! The Queen's webs encompass all; surely, not even Mephistopheles was outside her reach. He would offer, no, he would be _forced_ to give power to her clergy when she herself could not and in doing so, he would make them stronger than ever. For wasn't he a mere male after all? And wasn't it perfectly normal for males to serve the females? On the Planes as well as among the drow? Sinvyl saw this and seized the opportunity with both hands; the Ruling Matrons would be wise to do the same.

And so they had. And Mephistopheles was pleased.

_& & &  
_

**#** In mathematics, the Cartesian product (or product set) is a direct product of sets.  
Specifically, the Cartesian product of two sets X (for example the points on an x-axis) and Y (for example the points on a y-axis), denoted X × Y, is the set of all possible ordered pairs whose first component is a member of X and whose second component is a member of Y (e.g. the whole of the x-y plane). **#**

_**Cartesian Product – The Function Resolved **_

Mephistopheles was pleased. Sinvyl thought her designs were grand and on the small-minded scale of the mortals, indeed they were. But they could not measure up to the schemes of the true master behind the game.

"_His (Mephistopheles') schemes are also always flamboyant and flashy.__"_

In the end, it was about conquest and the power of belief. Menzoberranzan, or so his inside source informed him, was the darkest jewel in the Spider Queen's crown on this Prime. Consequently, the city was one of the strongest footholds of the tanar'ri. And much like drow, the baatezu relished nothing better than to corrupt and convert the souls and hearts of their enemies to serve their own purposes instead. All the sweeter if said hearts and souls would otherwise work against them.

Mephistopheles cared nothing for the Blood War. But he did care for the same goal baatezu everywhere shared – smearing order and evil across the Planes and quenching the taint of chaos along the way. And every victory, no matter how small, added up in the end.

In her ascension, Sinvyl dealt a mighty stab into the very heart of her city. By merely bringing a baatezu into its confines, she had already lessened the tanar'ri presence therein. By relying on Mephistopheles to provide her with power, she shifted the balance even further into baatezu favor. And now, with her conquest well on its way, the Matrons of Menzoberranzan could only stand witness to superiority of Baator over the Abyss. The baatezu made their statement by merely being there. And that was only the first step.

As Sinvyl's conquest progressed, so did the power of the baatezu spread. Soon enough, the Ruling Matrons would have no choice but to admit that alliance with Baator, with Cania, was indeed preferable to the unpredictable, chaotic dealings with the tanar'ri. Perhaps not in this generation, perhaps not in the next one as well, but a lifetime of a mortal was but a blink of Mephistopheles' eye. Soon enough, an embassy of Cania would be erected in the city and after Sinvyl successfully conquers Skullport and places Menzoberranzan on top of the Underdark hierarchy, other cities would soon fall in line as well. And then the power transfer can begin for real.

"_None come to us but those who have chosen to come to us. If we tempt, we do so only to grant understanding. If they fall, they fall willingly._"

In ascending as swiftly and brutally as she did, Sinvyl created a crack within the fabric of her city's beliefs. And that was all Mephistopheles needed her to do. For once the crack was created, the way opened for order and evil of Baator, of Cania, to seep through. Trickling at first, in time it would submerge the city in the dark liquid that was the blood of Baator fully. And Mephistopheles would bathe in it. That was his design; only one little piece of that puzzle was left to fall in its designated place. Skullport must fall, and must fall in blood.

"_All the baatezu need to exist is the awe and dread of creatures below them. Certainly, they relish sacrifices and offerings, but the baatezu are partly creatures of belief, and in the end, belief is what they feed on._"

Mortals believe the fiends needed blood sacrifices offered to them. The truth, however, is the direct opposite: it is the mortals who need that blood, not the other way around. For the greater part, it was a matter of symbology. Mortals believed that the fiends needed blood. The fiends fed on that belief. The more blood shed, the stronger the belief grew. And to, practically, have an entire city offered up as a sacrifice… That alone would fuel Mephistopheles' power as it hadn't been fueled for ages on end. And it would provide yet another steady influx of power he needed in order to overthrow Asmodeus.

When Sinvyl reaches Skullport, he would be summoned forth. A portal, a dimensional gate, would be opened between Skullport and Menzoberranzan, the Matrons gathered in chant and prayer to keep the gateway open and maintain the link between the blood offering, their city and Mephistopheles himself. And in doing so, they, too, would feel the power coursing through their veins, power much greater than anything they had known before. And they would know it was Mephistopheles' doing and their belief would grow even stronger.

Just one more conquest, and the circle of power would be complete.

"_One type of summoning calls a fiend by name, drawing it from its tasks without care or regard for that work. A baatezu so summoned is almost always furious for having been pulled away from its duties. Since baatezu are always involved in a task or a scheme, it's hardly likely that a summoner will catch one in a good mood – unless the fiend is manipulating the fool for its own purposes._"

_& & &  
_

And what of L'loth? What if she comes back from wherever she was disappearing to after all? Well, what of it? Hadn't Mephistopheles done her a favor by keeping her chosen mighty and strong? Hadn't he provided her a service by stepping in her place when situation demanded it of him? When her own priestess called him forth? Why, she practically _owed_ him for it.

If she came back, he was certain they could come to some sort of deal, she and him. After all, for all her chaotic nature, L'loth had long distanced herself from the affairs of the Abyss. Politics of the Lower Planes concerned her little, if at all. Surely, she could be made to see that an arrangement, an alliance perhaps, with Mephistopheles would only be to her benefit. Just like her own priestess had seen it before her.

All that, of course, _if_ she came back at all. But Mephistopheles doubted she would. Another power would make sure of that.

Vhaeraun, her own bastard son, knew he could never sway Menzoberranzan to his side. The city was too deeply devoted to his mother to ever switch one chaos for another. Menzoberranzan clergy could be persuaded to follow a male "emissary" of their goddess, but not a male deity as such. Still, the Masked God had stated that he would rather see Menzoberranzan fall to Mephistopheles than have it handed back to his mother to rule once more.

And Vhaeraun wanted his mother dead and that suited Mephistopheles' plans perfectly. When the time came, he would pit one drow deity against the other; hopefully, they would both perish in the process. And if not, whoever emerged victorious would be too weak to fight him over those of their chosen race he had already won.

If Vhaeraun emerged victorious from that conflict – and Mephistopheles privately believed that Shadow would - he would be satisfied with what was left. He never had a huge following to begin with and he wasn't used to handling things on such grand scales anyway. A spawn of his chaotic mother, Vhaeraun, too, carried the taint of Chaos inside him and no creature of Chaos could ever stand up against the true power of Order. In the end, Order always prevailed and Mephistopheles would be left the sole winner of every prize there was to be had.

As it should be. As it shall be.

* * *

**Advertisement!**

I mentioned that chapter "A Hunt Through The Dark" was a sort of an omage/nod to the great NWN1 module of the same name. I also mentioned that there is a chance that the module will be remastered for NWN2. And guess what? The first public beta is out! (grin)

You can download it here (omit spaces) :  
http: / / nwvault. / View.php?viewNWN2ModulesEnglish.Detail&id301

Of course, if you are downloading a _beta_ version, you are generally expected to _test_ the module. In other words, it would be very polite to offer bug reports/feedback once you're done playing. It's up to you, of course...

Personally, I think that, if you like drow (or grew to like them by now), this module is a _must_-play for you.


	37. Sex and Death

**Note: **Didn't take _that_ long to write this one. Took ages to edit it. I'm still not satisfied with the bloody death scene, but... I just couldn't stare at it any longer. Hopefully, it's not written _too_ badly.  
And on that note, with the chapter title like this, do I even need to say this? Graphic sex and violence ahead - far less sex, far more violence. Consider yourselves forewarned.

**Glossary:**_  
waelin_ - kids (young fools)  
_Elg'caress - _Bitch  
_Iblith srow_ - Iblith scum  
_In'loil d' shu_ - piece of shit  
_Vith'ir_ - fuck you  
_Asanque_ - likewise (no double meaning this time around)  
_D'aerthe_ - Whore  
_Xsa'ol_ - dammit

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 24 **

**Sex & Death**

"_I'm coming all the way  
I've got some hell to pay  
Gonna rip you all the way  
On my way down again"_  
(_"Lecher Bitch," Genitorturers_)

The cavern was easily as large as the one that housed Lith My'athar, but with far more wide, open paths leading in and out of it.

The walls, sharp and vertical at some spots and gently sloping at others, were crisscrossed by numerous walkways of varying widths; both natural and carved, they offered access to the higher portions of the cave and many smaller side-caverns therein. The ceiling in the northern portion was high – more than three hundred feet – with narrow canals leading all the way to the surface, opening into tiny fissures along the mountain side and funneling fresh air into the cavern deep below.

Fungus and lichen growth in the southern portion coupled with a pool of water, filed from some undercurrent beneath the floor, once made this place a home of wandering herds of wild rothe. The herds had been long extinguished, though, and the predators that hunted them soon shared their fate, leaving the exploitation of the precious resources to far more dangerous denizens of the Underdark. The merchant caravans that made their trade between Skullport and various cities of the Upperdark and Middledark now claimed the large cavern as their own.

The cavern floor had been flattened smooth by countless feet that traversed it. Natural depressions were stained by ashes of campfires, large mounds near cavern entries were chiseled and molded into sentry points. The crossroads was a perfect spot for large caravans to break camp, restock their supplies and catch some rest. Frequently, several caravans would camp in the cavern at once. In time, by an unspoken consensus, the cavern became something of a safe-zone – If fights were to be had, they were to be had elsewhere; upon entering the large camp, rivalries were left outside. In fact, often enough, the cavern would turn into impromptu marketplace, with caravans trading both goods and news amongst themselves.

The cavern was full at the moment. But not of merchants.

The entry points were guarded. Sentries, both seen and unseen held their posts. Scouts prowled the darkness further ahead. Slave herders watched over their packs nearby; every now and again, a game of "nail a goblin to the wall" or "how many orcs can you knock down with a single whip strike" would erupt to pass the time. Little way behind them, supply carts stood guarded by drow taskmasters while the pack animals, lizard and rothe alike, rested and grazed further to the south under the watchful eyes of armed bugbear slaves.

Lizards grazed close to the pool, their riders lounging close by, keeping an eye on their dangerous mounts. And on each other.

On the far north-eastern end of the cavern, somber duergar mercenaries kept their own company. Coin was what they were after; socializing with drow any further than absolutely necessary was not to their tastes. On the far south-eastern end, another solitary group kept to themselves. Both duergar and drow would rather mingle with each other than with them.

Now that the army marching from Menzoberranzan and the deployment led by the Valsharess merged again, the baatezu numbers increased. Bethurru had disappeared shortly after the Lith My'athar battle to take care of some private business (presumably, something to do with the celestial he had acquired), so another pit fiend general, a female by the name of Izar, now commanded the whole of the baatezu army. It was deemed appropriate that a female should be the one to march alongside Menzoberranzan troops and it only seemed appropriate that she keeps a higher rank in baatezu command chain now. It mattered not to either pit fiend involved, but it did keep the drow assembled happy. As happy as mortals could be while marching alongside infernal troops, that is.

In between those two groups, drow foot soldiers and casters filled the camp space from end to end, but if one took a closer look, one would notice that the camp wasn't as unified as it might have appeared at the first glance. While the soldiers were organized in mixed groups according to their function and stations, representatives of individual Houses did not mingle much. Several groups of two or more minotaurs stood rigid and alert around separate "camp isles", the bodyguard slaves guarding their charges with outmost care.

There were more than fifty Houses in Menzoberranzan; insignias of almost every single one were on display in the cave. What Houses were too small or too weak to spend soldiers supplied slave fodder, provisions or coin to finance the venture. If one were to observe the camp from above and pay attention to the ongoing undercurrents - how close particular individuals camped to one another, the glances they tossed each other's way and so on – one could get a fair reading of the current social and political situation of Menzoberranzan.

Whether they were persuaded or coerced into this venture, every House recognized this as an opportunity to increase its influence and undermine its opponents' further by every mean available. Short of assassination and open feuds, that is. The Valsharess strictly prohibited those practices while her army was on the move. Izar and her troops were there to insure that, among other things. But drow were nothing if not creative when it came to subtle intrigues and cloak-and-dagger dealings with one another. The camp, as a result, could have been compared to the still surface of Donnigarten Lake with more dark ripples beneath than there were demons in the Abyss.

Up from her vantage point on a northeastern walkway, some eighty feet above the encampment, Sinvyl observed the silent games and smiled. She knew many down there had strong feelings of déjà vu; Matron Baenre's failed attack on the surface was still a fresh memory in many minds. Sinvyl was content to let the memory linger like a dark fog above her army. The anxiety and continued doubts about her undertaking that created suited her perfectly: The failure of the most powerful Matron Menzoberranzan ever knew would only serve to highlight her own success even better.

Her smile turned a lighter shade of lust as her eyes caught sight of a figure swiftly approaching the walkway. She deliberately deprived herself of her newest pet's company for a while. She wanted to assess the little nek's scouting and hunting abilities. Their march from Lith My'athar offered a perfect opportunity to do so. But now, she wanted her back at her side. She was pleased to see the dancer answered her summons immediately.

Shi'van climbed the walkway with a light smirk plastered on her face. Aware of the many eyes following her progress, she pointedly walked with her head up, meeting any gaze that fell on her face openly, with an air of confidence bordering on arrogance. They couldn't touch her, she knew, not in the open anyway. Many would gladly plant a dagger in her back simply because she was the Valsharess' favorite toy for the time being. Sooner or later, that would change – be it a matter of days, weeks or years, Sinvyl would eventually get tired of her pet and find herself a new one. But for now, Shi'van had a position in her bed and outside the regular chain of command and she exercised the privileges her station afforded to the fullest. Of course, she had to watch her back carefully nonetheless: regardless of her standing with Sinvyl, there were always those willing to risk a stab in the dark. Her potential assassins probably counted on the fact that, for all her eccentricity, Sinvyl did not suffer incompetence in her subordinates; should she fall prey to an unseen blade, than she wasn't worthy of her position in the first place. But those were the blades that would be trained on her out of sight. Right now, as she made her way up towards her mistress, she enjoyed the privilege of virtual invulnerability.

Sinvyl smiled at her approach. The moment the dancer reached the platform-like ledge she was standing on, she turned around and motioned for the dancer to follow. The dancer obeyed, wordlessly, privately wondering what amusement Sinvyl had in stash for the two of them this time.

While they were still resting in the city, she had played what ssinssrigg games pleased her at the moment. She always liked a good threesome and she had been most keen on getting the dancer to enjoy male company more. Some males even survived. But on the other hand, Sinvyl would not neglect her previous regular bed partners either. Shi'van mused whether Sinvyl finally got tired of forcing males upon her and, should that be the case, would it be another Red Sister in bed with them again. While her own standing with Sinvyl had been good, the Sisters still held higher ranks than she. Their station extended to bed activities as well. Shi'van almost found herself wishing for a male instead of Faer'tyrr on occasion – when there was a male present, _he_ would be the one to take the most punishment, not her. She chuckled privately as it occurred to her that that may have been Sinvyl's design all along.

Three female guards were posted on each side of the short corridor they had entered. They were both warriors and priestesses, their insignias marking them as Sinvyl's personal retinue. Fifty winding feet ahead, the opening to the smaller cavern serving as Sinvyl's quarters for the occasion was guarded on each side by another female. Finely designed adamantine chainshirts, exquisite spider-shaped tiaras and trademark flails of House Bar'ritar marked those two as not only members of Sinvyl's House but possibly, her cousins as well. Both bowed to Sinvyl as she approached; both were wise enough to hold back their sneers of contempt when the dancer walked by. Their Matron's bed pets were rarely a lasting merchandise; there was no point in wasting time on disdain.

Between them, a large, heavy drape was drawn across the entrance; deceptively easy to draw aside, the drapery, Shi'van knew, bore heavy enchantments, making it impossible to move unless a proper trigger word was spoken and Sinvyl's House insignia flashed before it. Sinvyl whispered a password under her breath and tossed the cloth aside.

She snapped her fingers and pointed towards the guards. Still smirking, Shi'van removed her twin saber belts and placed them against the wall, next to the female guard's foot. She looked at Sinvyl and a side of her lip curved up knowingly; she made a show of raising her right hand and pointedly removing the leather bracer that housed Zesyyr's acidic stiletto. She placed the thing next to her sabers and grinned. Sinvyl ginned back. Unlike many drow, the dancer never took to keeping an additional blade hidden in her boot. By her own words, she could never make the damned thing fit right and it always made her uncomfortable as a result. Satisfied that her dangerous pet was now properly unarmed, the drow placed her hand on the dancer's butt and ushered her in.

The interior of Sinvyl's private cavern had been furnished and decorated in a luxurious manner, striking a stark contrast to the sparing accommodations the rest of her army enjoyed. Roughly nine times ten feet across, the floor had been chiseled smooth by the slaves of caravan masters centuries ago. Now, the floor sported a fine rug with a stylized spider embroidered on it in red and black. Draperies with similar designs lined the walls, giving the entire place a weird, almost cozy feel. If one disregarded the actual scenes depicted on the draperies, that is.

Several thin, spear-like stalactites reached down from the ceiling, their tips ending about six feet above the ground. Small holes had been carved into them, their purpose clearly denoted by the lines of dried wax clinging to the sides. Smaller, rounded holes were also in evidence and it was in these openings that several enchanted marbles were inserted in, emanating soft Faerie Fire light.

Straight ahead, in the middle of the chamber, placed between two low-hanging light-sources, a rather large bone-made table had been placed. Next to it stood a few chairs made of the same material. Viewed in darkvision, the cushions on the chairs would still radiate heat; in normal vision, the crumpled appearance still indicated someone sat in them not so long ago. The table was covered with maps, the topmost marking their current location and the one just beneath it outlining the main attack plan in the large trade tunnel less than two miles from main Underdark entrance to Skullport. Regardless of the camp, war councils never ceased...

To the left stood a smaller table of similar design with a bowl of fruit and several plates of various delicacies spread on top. Next to it stood a cupboard with a few bottles of fine beverages, tall crystal glasses placed beside them. Shi'van cocked her head, bit her finger and grinned at her mistress appreciatively. Wherever she went, Sinvyl never failed to treat herself to finer things in life.

Smiling, the drow gave her pet a once-over and chuckled.

"_My, my, the rigors of wild Underdark sure left their trace on you. Look at how skinny you became._" She tapped a finger against her lips. "_We should really feed you more._"

Shi'van took a glance at the table in quick assessment of the gastronomic display. "_So,_" she smiled and helped herself to a juicy piece of spiced rothe, "_Whose heart are we having tonight?_"

"_Nek! That is so gross!_" Sinvyl scolded with a laugh and moved behind the dancer to reach the bottles on the cupboard. "_Hearts indeed…_" she scoffed, picking out several bottles and a tall glass. "_Where in the Underdark are you getting such tasteless ideas, I'd like to know,_" she went on while shaking her head. "_Everybody knows hearts are only good for offering in a sacrifice,"_ she finished with a snigger and begun making herself a multi-colored cocktail.

Shi'van chortled and popped another snack-thing in her mouth. "_You should see the stuff they eat in Sigil,_" she chuckled softly.

Sinvyl paused her cocktail-making and regarded the dancer curiously. She always spoke so quietly, almost whispering, even when she laughed. It was common among the drow to keep their voices hushed, but the dancer sounded almost as if her throat was constrained. Upon her return from the Wilds, it was only natural she would be even more quiet than usual. Still, Sinvyl did not want to strain her ears just to hear her speak.

"_We'll have to do something about that throat of yours,_" she murmured. The dancer had long told her her throat indeed hurt when she tried to speak louder; an old wound, she said, that had a way of acting up when least expected. Sinvyl believed her; after all, the dancer did have a lovely scar to back her statement up. Apparently, her priest father once cast a spell of slow healing on her. Apparently, the spell never worked fully. Sinvyl scoffed inwardly – just the performance you'd expect from an insignificant male cleric of an insignificant male deity. She looked at the dancer happily experimenting with various sauces and spices and brushed the thought aside. The almost-too-quiet voice issue could wait.

"_So, what __do__ they eat in Sigil?_"

The dancer shrugged. "_Eh… all sorts of things. Bugs on a stick with sulfur topping…_" Sinvyl looked at her incredulously. The dancer gave her a "look". "_For tieflings and the like,_" she clarified. Sinvyl grinned at the notion.

"_Reputedly, the tiefling survived the assault, you know,_" she said with a lustful undertone. "_But we still haven't located him… _" she finished with a sad little shrug. Shi'van sighed in mock relief.

"_No doubt you'll want him in bed with us the moment you catch him._" Scoffed Shi'van sourly. Sinvyl's eyes lit up brightly.

"_He's three times my size and weight,_" the dancer complained. "_You'd be better off having him mate with minotaurs,_" she added with a wink, "_He'd improve the breeding pool like no one's business._"

Sinvyl laughed. "_You don't like him, I take it?_"

Shi'van shrugged. "_I can live just fine without his muzzle around. I don't want to bed him, that's for sure._"

"_Hmmm…. Then perhaps when we catch him, I'll share him with Faer'tyrr instead of you. …After I get my fill, of course,_" Sinvyl mused before waving the topic aside for later rumination.

"_So, what else do they eat in Sigil?_"

"_Ummm… fried elf?_"

Sinvyl perked up. "_Surface?_" The dancer laughed evilly:

"_All kinds._"

Sinvyl pursed her lips in a pout and resumed making her cocktail.

"_Larvae steak is always popular,_" the dancer rambled on between bites.

Sinvyl licked her lips. Stake made of dead souls reformed in petitioner Planar flesh tingled her palate something sweet.

"_And illihtid brain's considered a rare delicacy,_" Shi'van continued her account of fine Sigil cuisine.

Sinvyl almost choked on her drink. "_Enough!_" she snapped and slapped the dancer on the back of her head. "_That is disgusting! So… _" she fished for the right word, "_…gooey!_"

Shi'van looked up for a moment, memories of a certain Elder Brain suddenly entering her mind. "_You have no idea…_"

Sinvyl picked up the cue immediately. "_Now, don't tell me you actually __ate__ the thing! _" she asked in mock horror. "_I never thought the rebels were __that__ desperate! _"

Shi'van shook her head. "_Rothe Island? Remember? There was food enough._" She experimentally dipped a finger into another sauce, then licked it off and smacked her lips with obvious pleasure. "_But nothing this good._"

Sinvyl smiled, but her thoughts still dwelled on the aforementioned Elder Brain. "_You might as well have eaten it,_" she mused quietly, "_It served its purpose long before you attacked Zorvak'mur._"

Shi'van blinked. "_How so? The Seer was pretty certain she was dealing you a good blow with destroying the mind flayers._"

Sinvyl threw her head back and laughed heartily. "_Yes. She was also certain that destroying my few allies in the area was a good idea to begin with._" She would have summoned the baatezu either way, of course – a fair number of them was already marching alongside Menzoberranzan troops after all – but in truth, she probably would not have summoned that many had her other allies remained (relatively) intact.

Shi'van shared her mirth, but not fully. She was still puzzled by the Elder Brain remark. "_So… What __did__ the Elder Brain do, than?_"

Sinvyl laughed even harder. "_Spelled the Seer's doom,_" she said cockily and looked at her pet in amusement. How long would it take her to work it out, she wondered.

Shi'van frowned, attempting to do exactly that. Elder Brain… The Seer's doom… Nathyrra! She snapped her head up and looked at Sinvyl quizzically. Sinvyl grinned.

"_There was a negotiating party in Zorvak'mur…_" she purred.

"_So… The Elder Brain made Nathyrra turn coat?_" The dancer guessed, but it was clear from her tone she didn't quite believe it. Sinvyl grinned again.

"_No. She did it herself._" Seeing her pet cock her head like a surface child expecting a bedtime story made her burst into chuckles. "_All right, all right, I'll tell you,_" she said sweetly and patted the dancer's head patronizingly. She produced a now-darkened dagger from her belt.

"_See this? It belonged to Nathyrra once._" She twirled the dagger in her hand, catching reflections of Faerie Fire on the blade. "_Almost all high ranking Red Sisters have them. Better yet, __**I**__ do._" The dancer blinked and scratched her cheek with one finger.

"_And…?_"

Sinvyl grinned and took a sip of her drink. "_Patience, nek – The secret of good story-telling lies in creating suspension,_" she chuckled before she went on. "_Nathyrra always had doubts in her mind, you know._"

The dancer nodded. Nathyrra indeed had. While it hadn't been that apparent at first, the tell-tale signs only grew in number over time, readily on display for those who knew what to look for.

"_And she was foolish. But in the end, that served my purpose wonderfully._ _She was a good assassin in her own rights; I wasn't all that pleased with her defection at first. But then… I knew I could still find some use for her, one way or another. As it happened, in the end she made herself useful with no prompting from me at all._" Sinvyl paused and smiled a self-satisfied smile, reveling in the pure beauty of the complexity of the webs she had weaved.

"_You see, when the fools went to negotiate with the illihtids,_" she continued her little tale and the tone of her voice clearly stated how big a fools she took the Seer's forces for, "_the Elder Brain sensed her doubts immediately._"

"_And reported them to you,_" the dancer drew a corollary.

"_Of course. And that, in fact, was all the creature really did. Merely by touching on her buried doubts, the Elder Brain helped them drift closer to the surface. It only served to slightly speed up what would have happened anyway. Nathyrra was always a bit spineless, after all._"

The dancer nodded thoughtfully. "_She wanted to be on the winning side…_"

"_Like you do,_" Sinvyl baited slyly.

Shi'van grinned and looked her in the eye. "_Yes, but unlike Nathyrra, I made the right choice._"

Sinvyl laughed and set about making another cocktail.

"_All right, but how does the dagger figure into it?_" Shi'van asked.

"_Ah, yes. The dagger. See,_" Sinvyl twirled the dagger again while pouring some purple liquid on top of a yellow layer beneath with her other hand, "_it's a really simple crafting spell there. A drop of blood plus steel plus a forge plus a spell equals a dagger attuned to the person whose blood you used._"

The dancer frowned and started arranging sauced meat, cut mushrooms, fruit pieces and slices on cheese on toothpicks, piling up her handiwork on a large plate before her. "_A scrying device?_"

"_No,_" Sinvyl shook her head and reached for another bottle, "_That sort of thing requires stronger enchantments. No, this is merely attunement._" She picked the dagger again and slowly, inserted it beneath the line of stitching on the shoulder of the dancer's sleeveless shirt. With a flick of her wrist, she cut into the fabric and slid the blade towards the collar. "_Color and heat are indicative of the attunee's mood and mindset. General reading, is all._"

"_But it kept you in the know just the same, yes? You think I should dip the bread chops into hot sauce right away?_" Shi'van asked as the right side of her shirt slipped down, revealing one small tit and a good part of her belly.

Sinvyl switched the blade to her left hand and started on the other side of the dancer's shirt while placing her chin on her pet's right shoulder. She gave the plate a critical look.

"_No. Leave it as it is and bring the sauce along. It'll get soggy otherwise._"

Shi'van nodded. "_All right. So,_" she turned her head and nudged Sinvyl's cheek lightly, "_You kept your eye on Nathyrra from afar all along? Smooth…_"

Sinvyl bit her ear and finished cutting her shirt off. The cloth fell down, leaving the dancer naked from the waist up. "_Yes._" She chuckled smugly. "_No assassin of mine could ever get __that__ close to the Seer, you know._"

"_But you didn't actually know Nathyrra would turn coat in the end, did you?_"

Sinvyl laughed, stepped away and placed the dagger on the table. "_No, I did not. But there was a possibility of that happening. That's why it always pays to keep some wild cards in the deck. Sooner or later, there's always some use for them,_" she finished wryly, sizing the dancer up. She picked up the glasses, careful not to mix the multicolored layers in them, and motioned to the dancer to take the plate and follow.

Past the three large chests resting against the wall to the right - the one in the middle open, with fine silk gown visible at the top – there was another passage. Half-hidden by another drapery, the short corridor was barely three feet wide and led slightly upwards. At its end, it opened into a smaller side-chamber, its floor and walls similarly adorned with rugs and its center dominated by a large bed. Shi'van was pleasantly surprised to find neither a tied-up male nor a stretching female waited in the chamber for them.

"_Just the two of us?_" she smiled at her mistress. "_I like that…_"

Sinvyl grinned and urged the dancer to place the plate on a night table next to the bed. "_Just the two of us this time. Mind you,_" she smirked and trailed a hand down the dancer's breast, "_that means you'll have to work twice as hard to please me tonight._"

Shi'van bowed and bit her nipple lightly. "_The pleasure is all mine._"

Sinvyl grabbed her shoulders and pushed her onto the bed roughly. "_It is __mine__ you should be concerned about,_" she hissed and pulled herself on top of her insolent pet. A lust-colored giggle and a hand sliding between her legs was all the answer she received.

_**& & &  
**_

It was just another day of bickering in the Wilds. The looming presence of the grand army behind coupled with a prospect of a dangerous band of mercenaries up ahead, and spiced up with the ever-present possibility of a baatezu hunting party from the sides, the mixed band of Lith My'athar survivors coped as they could. Mostly by going on each other's nerves.

In the past week and more, Tarnash took to a new hobby: making open, bordering-on-rude, passes to Illiam every chance he got. Or created. In turn, Illiam grew a serious desire to screw Tarnash six ways to Skullport, but _not_ in the way the cocky Vhaerunite imagined. Ran'ree was having the time of his life spurring both of them on. Imloth felt like he was running a kindergarten.

As he made his way through their small, short-term camp, the Eilistraeean commander wondered if it were possible to have just one single day of relative squabble-free peace with this group. The smirk on Ran'ree's face quickly drowned his hopes that this would be that day. He rolled his eyes at the wizard and entered the tunnel beside him. Sure as Matron's wrath, he walked straight into an argument.

The small cave housed a water basin. Not very wide or deep, but – as it appeared - just big enough for a quick, impromptu bath. There were lichen growing at the water's edge, making the light slope a bit tricky to navigate. There was also a thin, wide stalagmite protruding out of the water, dividing the basin in two halves with less than two feet of space between the water's edge and the natural screen. And then, there was Iliam, dripping wet but fuming so hard the water seemed to evaporate from her. And there was, of course, Tarnash, also wet. And completely naked.

Unlike Illiam, who wore her hair cropped short, his was a mess of white tangles sticking to his shoulders and his back, sending lines of water down his fighting-honed muscles. Imloth squinted at the sight before him; something, he felt, was not quite right about the scene. For someone who, to all appearances, just stepped out of the water on the other side of the screen, Tarnash's hair seemed to be a bit too conveniently (not to mention too neatly) tossed back to reveal his pectorals fully. And that was without even going into the whole issue of what effect cold water usually had on male genitals; needless to say, Tarnash's looked nothing like that at the moment. Imloth rolled his eyes. What a brat…

His gaze shifted to the lichen near the basin and then to Illiam's traveling boots. The lichen _was_ slippery, true, but Illiam was not _that_ clumsy last time he checked. And her boots were well-designed for traveling much trickier paths than this. He looked at the lichen again. If there wasn't a bit of a pre-arranged Grease spell involved here, his name was not Imloth. He recalled the wizard's smug smirk from a moment ago. Right… Make that _two_ brats.

He looked at Illiam again. She didn't wear her armor in here; she wouldn't, if she intended to sneak in for a quick bath. And she was so angry her breathing came short and rapid… her chest rising and falling, perfectly outlined by the wet cloth that covered them. She didn't appear aware of that just yet, either. Imloth sighed. She was smarter than to fall for a simple, crude ruse like this. And yet, she fell for it… he smirked at the puddle forming around her feet and quickly corrected himself: she fell _into_ it like a surface teenager. _Three_ brats. Maiden help him…

He silently counted to ten and remained where he was – few steps away from the entrance and obscured from sight – and listened to the unfolding drama, vowing to himself that, should he ever learn of any brats he had sired in the past, he would make sure they never learned of _him_.

Tarnash was grinning like a sixteen year old who had just killed his first goblin at a training session.

"_Honestly, Illiam, what would you have me do? Politely knock on a stalagmite? Hang out a "bath in use" sign on it?_"

"_Anything but jump up and out the way you did!_" Illiam snapped back. The tone of her voice could have easily sent an experienced Arach-Tinilith instructor to shame. Tarnash seemed customarily unperturbed.

"_What did you expect? You startled me._" It was such an obvious lie that it was a wonder the ceiling hadn't collapsed from the sheer outrageousness of it. Imloth rolled his eyes again. Tarnash's voice was dripping with pure innocence. The bulge between his legs clearly stated he would gladly relieve Illiam of hers. The priestess narrowed her eyes at it balefully, but, to her credit, managed to compose herself in time. She pointed at his erection with her finger.

"_I am sure there are gnomes who would find that little mushroom there impressive, but you can stop parading it here,_" she said sweetly, in direct contrast to her expression. And the rest of her body language for that matter; one didn't need to use darkvision to recognize which parts of her body reacted on pure animalistic instinct at the sight of a naked male before her. Imloth suppressed a chuckle. Tarnash looked hurt.

"_Ouch! Now that was cruel,_" he said, placing a hand on his chest.

He would have undoubtedly went on with something suitably childish but for the fact that at that point, Imloth decided he had had enough. He stepped into the cavern and clapped his hands once.

"_All right, waelin, that's enough. Bathe or shag, but get it over with already. We need to decide on which routes to take next,_" he said and found he was not entirely able to repress a chuckle in his throat again.

Illiam spun about sharply, treating Imloth to one of the most blazing glares he had seen from her yet. Tarnash laughed. _I'll bed her yet,_ he signaled to Imloth behind Illiam's back. Imloth rolled his eyes.

"_We could do the first two just fine,_" said Tarnash out loud, ginning at Illiam invitingly as the priestess turned to him again.

Illiam looked up while trying to calm down. She shook her head slightly. "_Goddess help me…_" she muttered under her breath and turned to leave.

"_She's been so very helpful thus far,_" a mocking voice called after her. Imloth shot Tarnash a glare. Illiam stopped in her tracks.

"_Unlike your own god, you mean?_" she hissed at the Vhaeraunite. "_The "We have a god" one? The one that never showed up?_"

Tarnash's expression turned suddenly stern. Was it just a trick of pale lichen light reflected off the water surface that momentarily cast a strange shadow across his upper face or was there a bit more to it than that, neither Imloth nor Illiam could tell. The Vhaeraunite's eyes narrowed slightly.

"_Tell me, priestess – Do __you__ question the decisions of __your__ deity?_" he asked quietly.

Illiam blinked, taken aback by the sudden seriousness of his tone. "_Of… Of course not!_"

Tarnash beamed. "_I do mine. All the time._" His grin grew even wider. "_And bugger me if I can figure out what he's up to. But I do know he's up to something,_" he finished with a wink.

Illiam stared at him. Her mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came through. Tarnash laughed. Illiam spun on her heel and marched out.

Imloth took a step back and studied his rival carefully. The shadows no longer played tricks on his face, he noted. Tarnash cocked his head, chuckled and spread his arms wide, his nakedness on full display.

"_Jealous, old boy?_"

Imloth closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was now_ certain_ he must have done something really bad in his previous life; there was no other way he could have possibly deserved this.

"_Of course. I always dreamed about being an obnoxious brat,_" he mumbled, casting Tarnash a sideways glance. Tarnash laughed again, taking the half-hearted insult in stride.

Imloth gave up and strolled out. He had no doubts that Tarnash spoke the truth when he said his god was up to something. Imloth found himself praying that whatever it was, it involved Tarnash's mouth sewn shut. Skullport never seemed further away…

_**& & &  
**_

Sinvyl moaned, threw her hands above her head and grabbed the bedpost tightly. The bedsheet beneath her was crumpled and damp; the part beneath her ass was downright wet. And so was she.

Her pet had performed remarkably this evening. She stopped counting the orgasms she gave her. And she was about to come again. The sensation spreading across her aroused, blood-shot flesh was almost painful in its intensity. Her hips thrust up involuntarily, spurred into motion by the tongue flicking across her clit. Only the dancer's hand, placed firmly on her hip stopped her pelvic bone from connecting with her pet's chin and nose. The fingers inside her sped up slightly, bringing her closer to climax, yet not letting her get there too fast.

She snarled as she felt another finger entering her and snarled again as the fourth joined in, spreading her as wide as she could go, just narrowly staying on the pleasure side of pain. Just as she liked it. Her hips bucked up again and again, building up the speed as the feeling between her thighs kept mounting up to a crescendo.

She closed her eyes and arched her back sharply as the orgasm finally claimed her senses; she let out a feral roar of triumph and pleasure combined as her entire abdomen shook wildly and purple lights exploded behind her eyelids.

And then her roar turned into a scream…

_& & &  
_

Shi'van pressed her lips around her mistress' clit and begun sucking on it, her tongue flicking left and right across it. The bruise on her cheekbone and chin made her keep Sinvyl's hip pressed down firmly with her left hand. Her right hand kept pumping into the drow's pussy at a fast, steady pace. As Sinvyl's hips begun shuddering more violently and more out of control, she sped up the movement of her fingers inside her, shoving all four as deep and as fast as she could. Over a decade of whoring herself on the streets of Calimport left her with an intimate knowledge of humanoid anatomy. She knew how to read a body in bed and she knew how to please it well.

Cornered as she was at the very edge of the bed, she kept her left leg pulled up and bended, her thigh rubbing her cheek. Her right leg was pressed flat to the bed, ninety degrees in relation to the left. She pulled her knee closer to her body and pressed the sole of her foot against the bedpost behind her.

Sweat trickled down her forehead and into her eyes. Her nostrils were filled with the aroma of female fluids. Her mistress was about to come. And she would make her come, tonight and every night or day after this one, every time her mistress summoned her to her bedchamber, until her mistress got fed up with her and threw her away in favor of a new, fresh toy to play ssinssrigg with. It was a knowledge at the back of her mind, rather than a conscious thought running out front. And it bothered her little, if at all. She was floating in a void, detached from her body and herself, as she had been every time before – in Sinvyl's bed, like in Calimport dung heaps before that. Her body performed what was asked of it; she had nothing to do with it whatsoever.

She still worked her fingers in and out of her mistress. Sinvyl was spasming under her touch.

To be tossed aside was nothing compared to the time _before_ that happens. That, too, was a knowledge, rather than a thought. But in one timeless moment - as Sinvyl reached the peak of her orgasm, oblivious, for a few seconds, to anything but the burst of pleasure between her legs - the thought, the knowledge of the time between now and rejection, of whoring slavery that filled the space between the two, pierced the whore's detached mind like a hissing, silver needle and buried itself into her nervous system. Shi'van's body obeyed the sudden command without asking the brain for permission, without even notifying it of its intention properly.

Her leg muscles tensed, ready to push against the bedpost and propel her body forward. Her fingers came together tightly. Her thumb pressed against the other four, forming a cone.

And with strength that would have surprised her had she been around to witness its display, Shi'van brought her fingers in line with the wet opening before her…

And rammed her hand inside.

The skin around Sinvyl's vagina ripped.

It was one of those moments that stretch inside the eternity between two breaths, when mind is in a haze and the world outside moves sluggishly at the edge of perception. It was one of those moments when thoughts spin and tumble on the other side of lucidity, when instincts reach a decision and the body is forced into action before it even realizes what's it doing. Or how. Or why.

It was one of those moments between two breaths – The eternal moment that decides if there would _be_ another breath at all.

And within that moment, Shi'van became peripherally aware that Sinvyl begun to scream.

Over a decade of whoring left her with an intimate knowledge of humanoid anatomy. Being a regular asset in annual celebrations in Temple of Loviatar added a new dimension to that knowledge. She was no stranger to pain. The acquaintanceship went both ways.

. Shi'van's hand slammed straight into Sinvyl's cervix, the momentum gained by pushing herself against the bedpost giving her strength to almost reach the womb. The inner muscles were hard, the protective tissue too thick to be pierced by fingernails alone. She scratched at it anyway, digging her fingers into it as much as she could. Even without the puncture, the pain that produced was almost unbearable. She had that on good authority. Her own.

Sinvyl trashed madly; she tried slapping her thighs together, but the half-drow's head was in the way. Mindlessly, she launched a kick in the direction of pain. Shi'van bent her back as she tried to pull her arm out. Her lips closed around the drow's clit. The drow kicked her head just as her teeth clamped the sensitive piece of flesh in her mouth.

The heel struck her forehead, but due to all the sweat, slid down the side of her skull and rammed into her right shoulder instead. The impact of the blow made her jerk back violently. Sinvyl's clitoris stayed between her teeth. The rest of the tissue remained attached to its owner. A gust of blood shot forth from between the drow's thighs. The scream went a pitch higher, reverberating against the cavern walls.

In a tangle of screams and limbs, Shi'van kicked out over Sinvyl's belly and in general direction of the wildly-bucking drow's head. She pushed against the bedpost once more adding strength to the kick. Her hand was still stuck inside Sinvyl as her heel slammed into the drow's chin with a 'crack'. Shards of broken teeth cut through her foot. Sinvyl's grabbed her ankle, her scream suddenly turning into a gurgle.

Some part of Shi'van's brain was in charge of keeping time. It told her that the guards were probably half-way through the corridor by now. It also told her that even with cracked chin and broken teeth, Sinvyl can still cast. What sense of self she possessed at the moment couldn't care less about either of the three. As ever, her survival instinct thought otherwise.

She sprang up.

Her foot slid down Sinvyl's sweaty body, causing her to lose balance. She tried to pull her hand out of the drow's vagina as the drow kept kicking and bucking beneath her. A silent "snap", strangely audible amidst the ongoing blood-strained scream, told her the bone right beneath her wrist cracked as she hit it against Sinvyl's pelvic bone on the way out. There was, she knew, pain to accompany it, but sensations the body was experiencing mattered even less than usual in her numb, detached state.

Sinvyl's still had the dancer's ankle in her grasp and she tried, in vein, to kick the half-breed in the face. Shi'van grabbed the flailing hand, but her own right hand was still stuck behind and beneath her, and losing strength fast. With both of Sinvyl's hands out of the way, yet both of her own occupied or unavailable at the moment, Shi'van's body went for the only option left to it. She threw her head back, and rammed her forehead into the drow's nose.

Sinvyl's nose shattered loudly. Blood splashed across Shi'van's face. Splintered bone and cartilage stabbed into it. The scream came to an abrupt halt. Perhaps due to the sudden denial of air. Or perhaps a stray shard reached the brain. Shi'van did not know. Nor did she think about it as she scrambled up and finally wriggled her right hand free, ignoring the pain piercing through it.

Her ears caught the sound of running footsteps behind her. Her ears caught the sound of a curtain being drawn apart. Her ears caught the sound of shocked gasps. Her ears caught the sound of a startled shout about to start its way up a throat. Her left shoulder caught a crossbow bolt. Her body jerked in reaction. Her lips drew even further back over her teeth. But no sound came up her throat and past them, save for the continued, almost mute snarling she wasn't even aware she had been producing all along.

She brought her right hand up and stabbed her fingers into Sinvyl's eye, all the way to the knuckles. Her cracked bone flashed an icy flame of pain in protest. Another bolt struck her in the back. The organ beneath her fingers burst with a sickly "pop". Due to the angle of the shot, the second bolt did not remain imbedded into her flesh. Her fingers pierced the brain.

The sound of footsteps and a breeze behind her head heralded an incoming flail. She ducked her head, catching the weapon's head in the shoulder instead. She rolled with the blow, falling down the side of the bed... and into the welcoming arms of the shadow beneath.

When the next strike came, all it found was solid stone. Shi'van's body was gone. Grudgingly, her mind tagged along with it.

_& & &  
_

The events of the past several seconds only now begun to penetrate her conscious self as she groggily staggered to her feet in a shadow behind the cupboard in the main chamber. Her eyes were unfocused, her temples throbbing, her face and body dripping with spit, sweat, sex fluids and blood. The sound of running footsteps came from both corridors at once. A sudden burst of panic constricted her throat.

She cared nothing about being caught. She cared nothing about the tortures she would be subjugated to either. She didn't even think about it. In fact, she still didn't _think_ at all. But an old terror wrapped itself about her lungs all the same – the dreadful, paralyzing, fear at being naked and exposed. Helpless...Numb.

It would take her a long, long while for the realization of what she had just done – _while_ naked and exposed – to sink into her conscious mind properly. Luckily or not, though, the adrenaline surge still running rampant through her veins gave her instincts a boost of power to override the numbing impulse imbedded into her by every cock Calimport had to offer.

Shadows were a refuge. Shadows were her soul. She always stepped into them willingly and the shadows always welcomed her in turn. That, too, was an imbedded instinct, almost as old as the paralyzing impulse of numb detachment. Shadows and adrenaline now working hand in hand inside her, they forced her body to move. Or rather, to step into the shadow even deeper. And much further away.

It must have been barely two seconds between the moment the guards at the tunnel entrance triggered the enchanted drapery open and Shi'van's second shadow-step. Had the drapery flapped back into place just a fraction of a second sooner, there was a sound chance the magic would have blocked her from reaching the shadow beyond it. As it were, she never had to learn if that would have been the case or not. The inner need to not remain unarmed steered Shi'van's second shadow-jump right at the spot on the walkway where, hours ago, she had placed her weapons against the wall.

Now, she had eyes for nothing but blades. Her fingers closed around the twin belts of her sabers. Her other hand clutched the dagger-bracer tightly. The familiar sight of weapons in her grasp sent a rush of security straight up her spine. And with it, came the sudden clarity of mind only those on the other side of sanity possessed. Her consciousness edged closer to her body. The dancer's chin tilted up.

It was the clarity akin to the one her mind was swimming through about a month ago, back in the Maeviir compound. Only this time, there was no driving motive to guide her steps. There was only instinctive survival now, countered, mildly, by a vague question of the purpose of continued existence. As ever, the question was not enough for the body to override the instinct and give in. Although back inside the premises (or at least, lingering in their relative vicinity), the mind had no choice but to follow the body's lead.

Wiping the blood from her eyes with the back of her hand, Shi'van's empty gaze focused down.

The camp beneath her was in a state of uproar. Screams were not uncommon in Underdark, but in the world of thick silence, they were heard far and wide. And Sinvyl's could have shattered eardrums from a mile away. The buzzing in her own ears told Shi'van as much. Though no one down there was yet certain what, exactly, just happened up there, the mere fact that the screaming came from the Valsharess' cavern was enough to cause a frantic commotion. Whether Sinvyl was indeed dead or not, Shi'van had no idea whatsoever. Nor did she care about it. Resigned to ride on the survival high, the only thing she – or at least, her body - was concerned about was getting out of there, as fast as possible. Cold logic asserted itself long enough for her to quickly count her options.

The guards were running back down the corridor. What they would do in a few seconds when they got here was anyone's guess. To shout out that Sinvyl was dead was probably a bad idea. To give no explanation at all was probably worse. Most likely, they would say she was wounded or something. Either way, in a few seconds, Shi'van would be on the top of the "most wanted" list of the entire camp. And she was still only holding the belts on which her blades hung. She had no time to strap them on. She had no time to even pull them out of their scabbards in time.

The ledge right beneath her was too steep to navigate and anyway, it would only bring her down in the middle of the camp. The way she came here was not an option either, not in the least because several guards were already rushing up and towards her, though she doubted they had spotted her just yet. To her right, the walkway went further up but there was no connection to any tunnel that might be running above it.

The guards were almost upon her now, barely a shadow's breath away on both sides. The dancer gritted her teeth without noticing it. Her mind was blank. But her body still ran the show. The first guard burst from the drapery and onto the walkway next to the dancer. Neither Shi'van nor her body had any idea if it were possible to make it that far, but with no options left, her senses focused on a shadow deep below and… She shadow-jumped for it.

The dark cynic inside her was surprised indeed when it realized she had actually made it. She had never jumped so often or so far before. So far so bad... It wasn't certain if she could manage another one, though. Perhaps a short one, but that would be of little use right now. She stood on the ground floor of the huge cavern with over a thousand drow and at least three times as many fodder herds about. And that was without counting the baatezu at the far southwestern end. The nearest exit tunnel lay to her right, on the far northeast side. The way to it led through several drow "camp isles" and right beside the duergar mercenaries' ranks. The only chance was to run through the shadows and hope she would not be seen. Too soon. And then to see if she could indeed shadow-jump one more time, for there was no other way past the sentries guarding her only way out.

Her blank stare fell on her blades. They were still in their scabbards. The acidic stiletto was likewise still housed within the bracer she held in her other hand. She had no time to draw either of them - It was a matter of moments before someone spotted her where she stood. And her muscles were already trembling from the strain of several hours of sex and… whatever it was that came afterwards. A part of her still wondered why she even bothered. Another part supplied an answer, but both were merely an undercurrent, buried beneath the shattered surface of numb ice that currently served as her mind.

She spotted another, deeper shadow nearby and, without another thought, ran for it.

The cavern erupted into motion all around her. She heard a shout from above, but the actual words escaped her. They did not matter, anyway – there were only so many ways to shout "Get her!" after all.

Her foot faltered on the narrow rock, and she almost went sprawling head-first onto the ground. While her pain threshold for which the Loviatarians loved her so offered her body a chance to keep going, it was still no safeguard against slipping on her own blood. Sinvyl's broken teeth cut deep indeed. And leaving a trail of hot blood was the Underdark equivalent of screaming "I'm here!" to anyone interested in her location. Which, right now, was the entire camp. Cursing hotly but quietly in Calishite without even being aware she did so, Shi'van scrambled into the shadow, allowing her instincts a second to consider the next move. With the bloodied trail she left in her wake, a second was the most she could spare. Knowing that, among others, all the Red Sisters in the camp were out for her blood, made even a second too long a time to afford.

The dancer's eyes were as empty as her soul. Still, a dark flicker - that had nothing to do with emotion whatsoever - flashed inside them as the thought of a hunter in a shadow grazed the surface of her mind. Just as long as no caster highlights her with Faerie Fire, she could outmaneuver, outrun, dodge or avoid anything that attempter to assault her in her own domain. The certainty of it was almost imprinted into her bones. Whether she was right about it was another matter entirely.

She ran into another shadow barely a moment before a ball of magical vitriol slammed into the one she had just vacated.

It was a mad scramble of a mad creature through an equally mad world. The trick was to keep moving, at all costs. If forced to engage, she would have to disengage quickly. Her pursuers knew what they were dealing with. A shadowdancer could elude them, but a shadowdancer could only run so far in one go. While they had no clue how far from her latest point of disappearance would she reappear, they could still liberally shower spells and bolts in a thirty-foot radius around her last known location. Which they did. And often enough, the results were not lacking, either.

Some shadows later, her foot slipped once again, and this time, she fell down, twisting her leg at such an angle that only the flexibility of her dance-honed muscles saved her from adding a dislodged hip to the list of her injuries. Bare stone was of little use when it came to wiping the blood off and even if that weren't so, her foot was still bleeding just the same. It was unlikely she would reach her destination if she kept on slipping like that. Her gaze fell on Oloth as she picked herself up and ran on. She _could_ stop the bleeding all right. But if she engaged in combat – provided she even gets enough time to draw the blade in the first place – she would reveal her location to everyone around her. Perhaps only for a second or so, but a second was more than enough for another spell to find her or another bolt to pierce her flesh.

She willed the shadows closer to her body and kept moving, but she no longer tried to break into run. Another slip on the floor would be fatal. And the exit tunnel was still at least five hundred yards away.

It took her ages to cover barely a third of that distance. Twice she was spotted, and twice she managed to disappear from sight in the nick of time. Whether she considered it good luck or bad was of no importance; good or bad, she'd soon run out of it. And with it, her life, which concerned her little. But with it, also her _freedom_, and _that_ concerned her a lot. It would again be a while before that fact came up knocking at her mental front door, but it was true nonetheless.

A sixth sense sent her flat on the ground and rolling to a side an instant before a flaming arrow shot right above her. Had she remained standing, the missile would have outlined her a perfect target for every blade in vicinity. And the exit was still the merciless three hundred yards away.

Another wave of sharp pain erupting from her left shoulder informed her she rolled too far. The bolt dug deeper inside, scraping against the bone. A fresh gust of blood splashed on the floor. She almost scrambled to her feet again when another subconscious thought spurred her body in a different direction. In these few moments during which her hunters tried to assess if another flaming arrow was in order or not, she had just enough time to take care of at least one of the things that hampered her movement.

Lying on her back, she felt the shaft of the bolt wedge itself into the stone and shifted her shoulder slightly so that the tip would not go _into_ the bone. And then she slammed her shoulder down, forcing the bolt straight through the muscle and out on the other side. She grabbed the barbed arrowhead and yanked it free. A flash of million lights burst across her vision. The temporary blindness caused her more irritation than the searing pain that caused it. It was just an inconvenience of flesh, after all.

And then she moved on, her body determined to keep going as long as it could. Embraced by shadows, the dancer kept scrambling through them, absentmindedly wishing for a blade to cut her path short.

_**& & &  
**_

In normal circumstances, the Matrons of Menzoberranzan steered clear of Bregan D'Aerthe private business. The circumstances, however, were not normal these days.

For all points and purposes, Sinvyl practically appropriated the band shortly after her ascension within the city. There was fairly little Kimmuriel could do about it – bartering with someone who had an Arch Devil among her bargaining chips was a bit too much for even the skilled psionic to handle in a satisfactory way. At the same time, the Matrons of every House within the city made something of a pledge of fealty to Sinvyl and her designs for conquest. This put Bregan D'Aerthe in a rather precarious position.

No one in the city denied the usefulness of the powerful mercenary band, but that still didn't stop many Matrons from considering the almost exclusively male band of Houseless rogues to be a thorn in their respective sides and other bodily parts of notion. Should Bregan D'Aerthe, or even just one of its contingents, attempt to move against Sinvyl in any capacity, many Matrons would use that as a perfect excuse to eradicate the band entirely.

There were others as well, of course – Matrons who may not have been as thrilled with Sinvyl's designs as they had openly professed; Matrons who would likely silently support any attempt to weaken Sinvyl's power and influence… and of course, use that opportunity to settle a score or two with the rival Matrons on the other side of the board. Which, as everything else in the world of drow, was a multiple-edged blade. An interhouse war of such a big, tangled scale was not something Bregan D'Aerthe needed to be in the center of right now; Kimmuriel had no intentions of bringing his band's collective ass wedged between a rock and a hard matron in such a way.

The Red Sisters and other Bar'ritar agents were placed both in their city base and in the detachment currently in the tunnels some days away from Skullport. At any given moment, Kimmuriel could give an order to dispose of all of them, but that would land the part of the band that remained in the city straight into the proverbial shithole. If he were there himself, he could see to it that the band survives, and even profits from the power struggle that such a blatant insurgence would undoubtedly bring about. But Sinvyl was smart enough to remove him from the city as soon as possible and the psionic doubted his lieutenants in the city could successfully weather it out on their own. At any rate, not without serious losses to the band and that was a sacrifice Kimmuriel was not prepared to make… even if it meant having to bed Yasvyrae for a while.

Once in Skullport, he would let her run her schemes as intended while simultaneously running his own, right under her nose. The reports he had been getting from his scouts already in the city were favorable thus far. Once the time is right, Yasvyrae and her crew would find themselves suddenly alone amidst treacherous blades. Skullport blades, of course; no one would find it overly curious if the notoriously sly Skulkers dishonored their deal. Nor would anyone be able to count the _exact_ losses Bregan D'Aerthe would suffer during that attack. And after all the Sisters got disposed of, Kimmuriel would be free to leave a portion of his troops inside the city while taking others back to Menzoberranzan in secrecy. And once there, he would deal with whoever threatened his band's existence personally.

Win or lose, Sinvyl would be too occupied with Skullport to thwart his designs; by the time the ambitious bitch was done with the Port of Shadows, Kimmuriel would long have his band freed of her greedy clutch.

She would come knocking on Bregan D'Aerthe door again, of course. But by the time she does, Kimmuriel would have had enough time to prepare himself properly and find a way to cut her Baator-spawned advantage down to manageable size.

The sound of scuttling feet, tiny claws scraping against the cold stone, interrupted both the psionic's planning and lunch. Few of his soldiers sitting and eating nearby exchanged glances and smirked. Their leader had acquired a most peculiar pet in the Wilds, and while they enjoyed Yasvyrae's frustrated reactions to the creature as much as their psionic leader had, they enjoyed his own frustration with it even more. Not many things could extract a visible reaction from someone who survived the rigors of house Oblodra for almost two centuries straight, but the kobold seemed to manage it with alarming frequency.

The grins did not pass unnoticed. Kimmuriel shot his soldiers a sideways glance, silently warning them to take their snickering elsewhere, lest they find themselves confused enough to attempt to take their food through a wrong orifice on the wrong end of the spine.

The soldiers turned their backs to him, and though the quiet sniggers continued, at least their grinning muzzles were out of his sight. The kobold approached him with a bottle of wine in its hands. Not looking the beast's way, Kimmuriel held out an empty mug and continued his meal.

The creature had proved quite useful to him so far; the Mirror it kept even more so. In addition to keeping an eye on and coordinating his troops, in the past two weeks or so, Kimmuriel had also located the remaining rebels trailing some way behind them. He left them alone, content, for the time being, to merely keep track of their movements. Should a need arise, he could always find a useful role for them to play. He had even located the tiefling, only partially sane and running aimlessly through the tunnels along the same general track everyone and their pet stalactite seemed to follow these days. He kept a close eye on that one. He could easily steer the demon-blooded warrior in any direction he desired. It left a certain doom in a from of an oversized flail as an available alternative should he find a particular group of infiltrated agents too troublesome or dangerous to risk pitting his own troops against them.

Grudgingly, Kimmuriel had to admit – to himself at least – that both the rebels and the tiefling would have escaped his notice had it not been for the kobold. And as far as escaping notice went, he had to give it to the creature - It performed its role of an exotic pet to perfection. The pest just had a natural aptitude for playing a second fiddle.

Its "boss", on the other hand, usually drummed an entirely different tune all together. Kimmuriel frowned.

About a week ago, Yasvyrae mentioned off-handedly that her mistress had a new bed pet. Which in itself was neither unusual nor unexpected. However, said pet was, reputedly, of a rather exotic, shadowdancing variety. And while that, too, was not unexpected, it still struck a fairly discordant tone in the psionic's designs. There were only three people, aside from himself, who knew of his unauthorized little trip to Lith My'athar. Two of those were dead. The third one had her lips on Sinvyl's ear.

Had he learned of it sooner, gods only knew what mental gymnastics the news would have spurred him into performing. As it were, he learned of it about two weeks after it happened and by the word of mouth rather than a whip across his back. Which only meant Sinvyl still didn't know about his visit to the city. If the dancer wanted to inform Sinvyl of his side-dealings, she would have done so by that time. If she hadn't done it thus far, it was unlikely she would do it in the future either. He had been in her mind and, recalling certain aspect of what he had experienced in there, he was almost entirely certain of his assessment. But still, he was constantly bothered by that "almost" part. More so, as the time for his next move drew closer upon him.

He brought the mug to his lips and realized the kobold was still standing beside him.

"_Um… boss…?_"

"_Silence, kobold,_" Kimmuriel snapped an order, at the same time posing a question directly into the kobold's mind. He found a highly unusual unease in there. _What is it?_

_Ummm… Deekin is thinking you shoulds see something._

_Later, kobold._

_Deekin is thinking you shoulds see it now._

_See what?_

_The bad drow lady be dead, boss…_

Kimmuriel's mind skipped a tick. "_Secure the area,_" he hissed at his soldiers. _Show me. Now._

Half an hour later, Kimmuriel's plans underwent a complete overhaul. To say he was extremely pleased by this unexpected new development would be to call a Displacer Beast a mere house kitten with an extra pair of legs.

_**& & &  
**_

About two decades ago, a shadowdancer with a splintered mind and a deathwish to go, fled the chains of slavery in Port of Shadows. To this day, the memories of that flight (as well as the five years that followed it) remained hazy and obscured, available only through vague recollections of smells and sounds, a part of a nightmare or an odd flashback. Her current flight through the camp cavern – once again in defiance to the deathwish present both then and now – was pretty much the same. She could recall movement, dappled with burning splashes of pain and an occasional soft sensation of a shadows' embrace, but how, exactly, she ended up at the mouth of the tunnel leading out of the cave, she had no idea whatsoever.

Regardless, she was there. And so were her hunters.

Somewhere along the way, within a span of several shadows, she managed to slip her wrist into the bracer, using mostly her teeth. Her mouth and throat were full of blood and she remembered, foggily, spitting some of it out. She did not recall spitting Sinvyl's clit along with it. Perhaps she spat it out earlier, way back in the chamber as she drove her head into the drow's nose. Or perhaps she swallowed it. The trivial detail somehow floated up to the front of her thoughts. Her mind, having nothing better to do, occupied itself chewing on it.

Somewhere along the way, she also drew her blades and left the belts and the scabbards on the floor behind. And that was all that mattered. Nakedness always dulled her senses, drove her to submission, stunned her to the point of surrender. But now she had weapons in her hands. She was no longer naked. The fact that she had no clothes on was irrelevant. Mere nudity held no significance to a whore.

She smiled detachedly as her pursuers piled up upon her, and whirled out of the shadows to stain her blades with blood.

_& & &  
_

The warriors charged at the swirling mist before them. Several casters rushed up from behind and let their spells fly. In the frantic confusion, where no one was certain what, exactly, had happened just yet, they did not bother aiming at the shadow. Rather, they sprayed spells straight into the blurred melee, counting on the innate magic resistance of the drow to spare their own fighters from the most devastating effects of their invocations. The results were often mixed, leaving many drow blinded and charred and, ironically, offering the fleeting shadow a chance to disappear even further into the tunnel.

Things would have been far more organized if anyone could tell where their quarry was to begin with. The outguards chased the elusive shade through the main passage; many in the main cavern still chased their own tails through the shadows. What never started out as a cohesive attack in the first place, soon turned into a disarrayed pursuit through the dark side corridors diverging from the main path. Scouts led the way into the darkness. Several lizard riders took to the flanks. Where shadows were quick to trick the eye, and trail of blood soon became crisscrossed and confusing, the agile lizards could still follow its smell unerringly. And the chase went on.

_& & &  
_

A large shadow separated itself from the rest. Vaporous fur bristled in the darkness. Yellow eyes glowed a sinister light above a muzzle contorted in a growl. Razor-sharp canines thirsted for warm blood.

She didn't see him, but she knew he was here. Karandras crouched as she sprinted past him and leapt for the throat of the one behind her. With a startled gurgle ending in a snap of fangs, a drow collapsed to the floor. As his front paws touched the ground softly, Karandras spun about and jumped after her.

All of it took a mere few seconds to happen and it would have been a sight to inspire a dark-inclined poet had it not been for one little detail to mar the perfect picture of shadow-wrought death. The huge proud beast, the herald of death, the darkness incarnate… just happened to have a ribbon tied around its neck. He was only thankful it wasn't pink. It was bad enough to wear a collar, like some ordinary dog – he didn't have to look like an inbred poodle on top.

Well of course he couldn't just keep hauling that damned bag in his jaws all the time. However, having four paws and no pockets did not really offer many alternatives in baggage-carrying department. And paws were not exactly the ideal type of appendages for deft object manipulation either.

And so Karandras did the only thing he could – He prowled the Shadow Plane until he found a creature whose limbs were shaped more suitably than his. How many limbs and what shape, exactly, was beside the point. Either way, he cowed the creature into tying the bag around his neck. And of course, as soon as the task was done, he killed it.

Gossip traveled fast and the Shadow Plane was no exception to the rule. Had the shadow pack he occasionally ran with caught wind of him wearing a collar, they'd never let him live it down. He was already hearing no end of his bond with a flesh-clad mortal as it were – Even dire shadow wolves had to draw a line somewhere.

_& & &  
_

The lizard darted into a narrow tunnel and jumped on the wall at its rider's command. Run as she might, the iblith was still confined to the ground; lizards and their riders had shortcuts across the walls available only to them. His mount followed the scent of blood in here. From a higher vantage point, the rider himself spotted a few splashes of it on the floor. Judging by the amount of heat it emanated, it's been only a few seconds since it was shed. He could not see his prey, but he _knew_ she was in here.

He kicked the lizard's flanks, urging the beast higher up and further ahead. The shadow could not move as quickly as that. Soon enough, other hunters would enter this tunnel. If he cut her off from the front, she would have nowhere to go. Privately, though, he hoped others wouldn't come in too soon. He wanted to deal the killing blow himself.

He caught a flicker of movement on the ground and steered his mount down. A shadow-wrapped figure stepped out from the darkness. Next instant, another shadow sprang forth, but this one came not from below but from the side. And went straight for his mount's throat.

The lizard reared and hissed loudly, claws and teeth meeting the incoming ones. The rider cursed and dropped his crossbow. The lizard jumped down. The huge toothed shadow jumped after it, slamming it into the wall just as it's claws touched the ground again. Only lightning-fast reflex spared the rider from getting his head caved in as the lizard beneath him trashed and bucked wildly. Growling, the rider fumbled with his dagger, trying to cut himself free from the harness that held him strapped tightly to the maddened beast. He had one, maybe two seconds to do it; if he failed, his life was forfeit. There were few things as dangerous and lethal as being tied to a Cold One out of control. And that was without even going into the whole fighting with a shadow wolf business. The harness snapped.

A moment later, a battered drow rolled out of the tangled mass of scales and shadows and snapped his blades up. Just in time, for no sooner than he finished his roll, a second, smaller shadow was upon him. The rider snarled. He had been aching for this opportunity for a long time.

The blades came at him in rapid succession of swirling strikes, the shadow before him constantly moving and changing angles, dancing around him like there was no tomorrow. The rider sneered. If he had any saying in it, the shadow would be right about that before long.

Behind the two, the shadow wolf and the lizard were still locked in a tumbling, growling show-down of fangs and claws. As his own battle went on, the rider's growls became more and more bestial in quality. Hatred burned in his red eyes as he blocked and parried, waiting for the opening to present itself to his hungry blades.

After the initial attack, there was enough time for him to study his enemy's style. She wasn't as fast as she should have been, he noted with dark satisfaction. The bloody fog that surrounded her was the result of her own wounds. She was still quick, quicker than many opponents he had faced so far, but the rider sensed her movements were not in complete sync with each other. Grinning evilly, he found his own rhythm and interjected it into hers.

Had she been a bit more aware of herself, she would have been impressed at the display. As it were, she merely wrapped the shadows about her tighter and danced on. Her leg was still unstable, but within the dance, even a stagger could be woven into the swirling pattern. Her wrist was a bigger problem at the moment, to say nothing of a gaping hole through her left bicep. Ignoring the pain was one thing; getting the muscles to act as they should was another matter entirely. And with all the blood streaming down her arms, only the fine engraving on the sabers' hilts kept them from slipping from her grasp.

Her cuts and slashes came less fast, less strong than they should. More of a problem - The same went for her parries. He already scored several gashes on her bare body; she only delivered several nicks across his. Her body needed something, an edge of some sort, an opening, a chance, or else, it would soon cease to exist.

Her blood was filled with shadows. Her mind was empty and still. Her body became the rhythm. And her blade found a soft spot across her opponent's stomach.

He wasn't even aware he had been spitting curses all the while. Now, his curse turned into a short-lived scream as he felt a blade cut through his skin and dig deep into his insides. He dropped one sword and staggered back, clutching at the wound. Hot blood poured over his fingers. Coldness burned through his guts. Something soft and slithery inside him wanted out.

The shadow turned a circle before him and brought her other saber onto his shoulder. It wasn't the strength of the strike but rather, the powerful enchantment of sharpness placed upon it that allowed the thing to dig in deeply, almost to the bone. A shot of acid poured forth from the blade, burning the wound in a sharp burst of agony. The rider yelled and drop his other sword. He fell with his back to the wall and spat blood.

"_Elg'caress!_" he hissed sharply, madly, as she advanced upon him. "_Iblith srow!_"

The sounds of battle between the lizard and the shadow died down. The rider had no illusions as to who won the fight. He couldn't have cared less, though. "_In'loil d' shu!_" he went on mindlessly, growling at the bleeding shadow before him. The pain in his abdomen intensified, but still he kept snarling blood-stained insults her way.

The tip of the darkened blade touched his throat. He lifted his gaze to met the emptiness of hers venomously. He spat at the blade.

"_Elg'caress!_"

The female paused.

"_Vith'ir!_" he growled through teeth clenched in pain.

"_No._"

It was a whisper, barely loud enough to reach his ears at all. The female stepped back. Empty eyes stared into his blankly. She took another step backwards, extending her arm so that the maximum distance of both blade and limb was between them. The proper distance… As close to other creatures - especially males – as she ever cared to be. She tilted her head slightly, as a flicker of recollection momentarily lit the blank gaze of the void.

"_Defiance come late,_" the female spoke in a hollow voice. "_And to the wrong female…_"

The rider hissed, blood and spittle spraying through his teeth. "_D'aerthe!_"

"_Asanque,_" she rasped through the blood in her throat.

The rider's face contorted, pain in his abdomen reaching new heights. His shoulder sent piercing shrieks of agony straight into his skull. The rage at being called a whore – and by an iblith, _this_ bilith of all creatures – gave him strength to remain conscious through it. The fact that she was right in her assessment burned in his insides sharper than steel.

The snake-pommeled blade fell down with a clang. The female extended her hand, beckoning to the larger shadow to come closer. She recalled the rider's face as one of the many she had seen in Sinvyl's bed. He was a whore, just like her. And there was no honor, no mercy among whores. Only bitter rivalry and a desire to kill. But this one cursed. Down on the ground, disarmed and defenseless, he still growled and spat venom of defiance. Not beaten. Not numbed. Still not surrendering… As she always had.

Did a drop of respect trickle into her mind? Something else? She wasn't sure, and did not dwell on it either. On a whim, she reached into the bag around her companion's neck and pried out one of the last bottles she had inside, never taking her eyes off the dying male before her. A pinch of puzzlement blotched with amusement entered her thoughts. She responded with a mental shrug and placed the vial on the ground beside her foot.

They were both just whores, their bodies and their blades at others' back and call. Mere whores. The toys for sex and death.

Without a word, she picked up her blade, turned around and stepped into the shadows of the tunnel ahead.

The canine shadow fell in step behind her. For just a moment, Relon thought he heard a deep, quiet snigger escape the fiend's throat.

_& & &  
_

The flask lay on the ground, less than five feet away. A red screen of pain drew across his vision, dazing him to near-unconsciousness. Blood poured out of his wounds freely. In a few moments, he would be dead. He clenched his teeth and toppled forward, reaching for the vial. A part of him wondered if it were a slow-working poison sloshing in it. The rest of him knew it didn't really matter. He fumbled the cork open and begun pouring the potion down his blood-choked throat. And then collapsed back on the ground, flat on his back, and closed his eyes.

Slight tingles erupted beneath his skin, bluish-green needles of light and magic prickling his flesh from within. Waves of soothing cold begun rolling across his severed tendons, washing the pain away and leaving pleasant numbness in their wake. The trickle of blood between his fingers lessened and then stopped entirely. He felt the skin beneath his palm close. Acid still bit through his shoulder, preventing the wound from closing completely but at least, the pain lessened in its intensity and raw muscle tissue bound itself loosely. Moments passed…

Relon opened his eyes and rolled onto his side, coughing and spitting blood. He was far from fully healed, but he was no longer in immediate danger of dying. He spat again and wiped the hair from his eyes. His gaze fell on what was left of his mount -crumpled on the floor, a heap of shredded muscles and scales.

Slowly, careful not to rip the freshly-healed wounds open again, he brought himself up on his knees and groaned softly. No sounds heralding other scouts came from the tunnel beyond. Relon found himself thinking that might not be such a bad thing after all. It was worse than that.

Dammit! What was he supposed to do now? He could well imagine the treatment he'd get if he returned to the camp. Allowing the iblith to escape? Being defeated by her? And losing a precious mount on top of it all? He narrowed his eyes at the empty flask balefully. Staggering back to the camp would render the cursed thing he had just imbibed perfectly obsolete. And Abyss only knew what was happening back there by now anyway. Better yet, _Baator_ knew. Dammit! He would have been better off bleeding on the floor to death.

He looked around again and dared try a sitting position. He considered his options. He realized he had none. Hike back to the camp or dare the wilds on his own – both amounted to more or less the same thing. He spat again and cursed the iblith hotly.

"_Xsa'ol!_" he finished his tirade and grabbed the wall for support. He was about to try and stand up when a movement in the shadows to the side caught his attention. Shadows, he realized, at the end of the tunnel opposite to the camp.

His gaze quickly darted to his blades on the ground. Both were out of his reach. His hand clutched the dagger in his boot reflexively. The shadow stirred. Twin dots of blue flickered within it, apparently trained on the tunnel down which the iblith had disappeared. For a second, an outline of a smirk beneath a deeper patch of shadow could be seen. Relon swallowed hard.

"_She is quite a something else,_" a soft chuckle reached his ears. He swallowed again. The shadow turned to face him. Relon's mind raced to catch up with what his guts already worked out.

"_Vhaeraun…_" he mouthed soundlessly.

The shadow bowed its head. Another chuckle escaped its lips. A slender, finely-muscled drow male stepped out. His eyes behind the mask still burned bright blue. The equally blue hair, the color somehow visible even in pitch darkness, was already running with streaks of gold.

The male grinned. "_Care to change sides?_" he asked the stunned rider. Relon could have sworn he saw him wink. His jaw still hanging open in shock, he quickly nodded without even thinking about it. Any side was better than the upside-down one his entire world had just turned into.

"_Then stand up,_" the male grinned again, grabbed his arm and heaved him up on his feet. Still weak from the fight, Relon unwittingly gripped the male's arm for support.

The eyes of the god blazed triumphant gold.

_**&**_


	38. Sequel Of Decay

**A Note: **Once upon a time, Euphorbic left me a review on chapter 21 (I think) in which it was stated that Valen acts like a spineless doormat and Shi'van is being outrageously obnoxious all around. The review wasn't worded exactly like this, of course, but nonetheless, it was true. And it served to remind me that, while I may know the whats and the whys of the characters' actions, I might do well to sometimes share that knowledge with the readers as well. (laugh) So, thank you, Euphorbic, for pointing that "little" thing out to me - it helped me immensly!  
And now, more than ten chapters later, we finally get to the point that, I've no doubts, many of you have been waiting for - the exact nature of Valen's and Shi'van's relationship throughout the story gets revealed at long last. Hopefully, all their previous... ehrm... 'encounters' (so to call them) will now make much more sense.

One more thing - for those of you who may have problems reaching review replies, the easiest way is to go to my profile page and follow the link to the Shadows Unabated forum from there.

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 25 **

**Sequel Of Decay**

.

"_Cuius testiculos habes, habeas cardia et cerebellum."  
("Small Gods," Terry Pratchett)_

The great adamantine gate of House Bar'ritar burst open. The slaves, the guards and the market-goers unfortunate enough to find themselves on the wrong side of the street went flying through the air in a spray of combusting flesh. Hellish flames engulfed both metal and stone. The lord of Cania stepped through, wrapped his cape about him and, in a flash of crimson smoke, disappeared from the street.

He was not about to let the loss of his pawn thwart his designs for this place.

_& & &  
_

The Matrons of Menzoberranzan arrived at the Academy plateau as soon as they heard the news. Students and masters of all three schools stood in a semi-circle around a nine feet tall figure of an Arch Devil. Charred corpses of those who got too close to the flames dancing around the fiend's body lay twisted and sprawled on the ground.

With deep red skin and burning white eyes, the lord of Cania stood patiently with his arms crossed, straight black hair falling down his shoulders, huge bat-like wings folded close to his body and a flamboyant cape flowing in non-existent breeze.

A commotion started from the back rows of the Academy members as they simultaneously attempted to get out of the way of both the devil in the front and the Matrons at their backs. Pushing brazenly through the gathering, the eight Ruling Matrons of the city made their way to the front and faced the awaiting duke.

The devil gave them a long, scrutinizing gaze, reminiscent of the one usually reserved for lap lizards – not entirely unkind at the moment, but with no guarantees that that wouldn't change in a blink of an eye. His wings spread lightly, sending cascading flames dancing along their edges.

"_My Ladies,_" he addressed them collectively, the rich baritone of his voice flowing like dark chocolate dipped in blood, "_To what do I owe the pleasure of such a personal greeting?_"

The gathered Matrons very pointedly did _not_ exchange glances with each other.

"_You come unbidden,_" one eventually said. Mephistopheles recognized that one to be Triel Baenre, the Matron of the city's First House. The duke inclined his head slightly and focused the vivid white of his eyes on her fully.

"_But I did come bidden, Matron Baenre._" A hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips; while seemingly amicable, the expression managed to relay more menace than any mortal, even a Matron, could possibly hope to match. "_It is just that I am no longer bound._"

It was a statement rather than a threat, but sinister undertones hung heavily in the air long after the words had been spoken. To her credit, Triel kept her gaze locked on the duke without flinching. Outwardly, anyway.

Sinvyl Bar'ritar was dead. Mephistopheles prevented the news from reaching Menzoberranzan for a few days, but even he could not keep the mortal gossips on a leash forever. He used the time to instruct Izar to round up the troops, both drow and infernal, and keep them marching as intended. Of course, many foolish mortals used the frenzied confusion following Sinvyl's death to desert the ranks, but that did not matter. There were still more than enough of them to bring the Port of Shadows to its knees.

"_You prevented our troops from returning,_" Triel said as if reading his thoughts even though, in reality, it was him who was reading hers.

"_And why __should__ they return, Matron?_" the duke asked, his baritone deepening with every next syllable he spoke.

"_Matron Bar'ritar is dead,_" Triel said matter-of-factly, doing a splendid job of not letting her true emotions taint either her stance or her voice.

Mephistopheles' lips suddenly parted into a that was a study in charm. "_Indeed she is. But is that a reason to forego such a glorious conquest?_"

Triel looked at him incredulously and not a little worried. Arch-devils standing proud and tall was only to be expected from such creatures. But if they started smiling… _That_ was _not_ a good omen by any stretch of imagination.

The duke glanced around him as if he only now noticed the rest of the mortals on the plaza. A thin tail of hellfire momentarily rushed up his torso, denoting his annoyance. The gathered drow took a step back. Mephistopheles turned his gaze back on the Ruling Matrons.

"_But perhaps we should discuss matter somewhere more… private?_"

_& & &  
_

It took Mephistopheles less than three hours to smooth-talk the Matrons into continuing with his plans regardless of Sinvyl's death. A joint venture, for the collective glory of Menzoberranzan. How brilliantly dark will their city shine in everyone's eyes once the whole Underdark learns of their uncontested power? And how many opportunities for individual Matrons to outshine their rivals along that way? And how many would come to pledge fealty to them after the deed was done?

With Mephistopheles on their side, granting them full power when everyone else's was waning fast, nothing was beyond the Menzoberranzan Matrons' reach.

_**& & &  
**_

Around the same time when Mephistopheles took off from the Academy square to discuss matters with the ruling Matrons in private, dozens of unseen blades flashed down in the Clawrift and all across the city. In a matter of a mere hour, Bregan D'Aerthe was fully clean of any and all Bar'ritar agents that infested their ranks.

Except, of course, for a few that decided to join the band for real. Those had been disarmed and imprisoned until their leader had time to scan their minds personally and discern the honesty of their professed intentions.

Kimmuriel watched his lieutenants' hand-sign report in silence, nodded and dismissed the image from the Mirror. Word of Sinvyl's death finally reached Menzoberranzan. Yasvyrae learned of it a bit sooner. Kimmuriel had no problems persuading her to slow down their pace and wait to see who would assume command and if there would be an attack on Skullport at all. This gave the rebels trailing behind them ample time to catch up.

He willed the Mirror to show him their location. Familiar tunnels he and his band had already passed through came into view. The rebels were less than a day's march away. Perfect. He turned to the kobold and handed the item over.

The beast's time with him was nearing its end. It would be an understatement to say he was merely happy about it. But the beast still had its uses, so Kimmuriel was resigned to tolerate its presence a while longer. Once in Skullport, he would have plenty of time to decide whether Jaka or Jarlaxle would receive a little winged present from theirs truly.

Signaling to four of his soldiers to follow, the psionic brought up a portal leading to a side passage near the rebels' current position and stepped through. Sinvyl's troops in the city had been disposed of. It was time for their detachment here to follow suit.

Securing their personal interests while trying to lead the assault from afar, _and_ with an arch devil breathing down their necks, the Matrons back home were too busy to deal with the mercenary band on top of everything else. Kimmuriel was positive the ruling females would wait until Skullport was conquered before addressing the issue of his band's coup properly. That left the home base safe for the time being. However, if they heard reports of _this_ detachment performing a coup of their own and roughly around the same time, the Matrons _would_ turn their unforgiving gazes to Clawrift instantaneously. And likely, exact their vengeance upon them immediately.

But if the band got attacked in the tunnels… with only few survivors left… and with proper, first-hand reports from reliable sources reaching the Matrons' ears... Well, no one could object to that, right? At least, not right away.

Kimmuriel counted on the Matrons being too involved in their own schemes to try and sort out his right away. It was a gamble, but one he was certain he would win. Once he went back to Menzobarranzan, he would see to it that all the trumps rested up his sleeves.

It was Jarlaxle's pleasure to dance on the edge of disaster. Kimmuriel preferred things to be more controllable. But even he couldn't deny the dark tingling pleasure in his stomach as his dangerous scheme was finally spurred into motion.

_**& & &  
**_

"_You've had your last regrets  
Reached your final depths  
Deepest pits  
Stepped aside for the world to pass you by  
You are stuck in a world of deadlocks…"  
("Deadlocked," Tristania)_

Her shoulder wasn't bleeding any more. Neither did her foot. That didn't mean much. The last healing potion, medium potency, swallowed days ago, was about good enough to clot the wounds and leave her wrist bone aching. She strapped the bracer over it tightly and walked on.

Industrious rummaging through the Bag eventually produced a spare pair of trousers and an old pair of boots. A ragged shawl was wrapped around her breasts. There were no scabbards. Karandras trotted behind her, thinking what kind of creature would keep all sorts of junk in a Bag, but manage to discard or forget essentials such as spare clothes. Even the kobold kept the spares, for Shadow Plane's sake!

There was food, though. There was always food. Food was important. For one who had existed on a brink of starvation for more than two decades straight, food held significance above everything else. Except being armed, of course. And the way she was devouring it… Well, "wolfing" it down didn't even begin to describe it. You can have _that_ on good authority.

So she stopped to eat. That was more-or-less it. She occasionally collapsed into sleep. Sometimes she managed it for full fifteen minutes in one go before one nightmare or another snapped her from it. Aside from that, there was nothing. Just the Void. Karandras didn't go in there. He kept the mental link to the minimum. There were some places even he found too dark to tread.

The mask had come down, revealing only a hollow husk beneath. Life…? Was something that happened to other people. She was only a pretender. A good mimic, once, but that was about it. Breathing was sheer force of habit. Existence continued only because no alternative was available. Until now…

A howl echoed through the tunnels, a cry of anguish and wrath; a memory from another life…

Her ears picked up the sound and she turned her empty stare its way. A simple stimulus-response link clicked into place, inducing an almost reflexive reaction. She started walking towards the sound.

Karandras followed her apprehensively, cold anxiety settling into his bones.

_**& & &  
**_

It had been four days since their rear guards reported increased commotion in the tunnels behind. They had assumed that the Valsharess' army simply increased their pace, eager to reach Skullport as soon as possible. They had no idea Sinvyl had been decaying for five days already. And so they pressed on.

They didn't even try scrying on her ranks – with so many wizards and priestesses, let alone all the baatezu present, they would be spotted in no time. And thus they sped up, resting only when absolutely necessary and moving at top speed in the meantime. Needless to say, everyone's patience with everyone else had worn thin to the point of snapping.

And then they were attacked. Or rather, it was _them_ who attacked.

A score of the Valsharess' troops suddenly appeared in the tunnels behind them. The rear guards had just enough time to inform the main group about the incoming enemies. And the main group had just barely enough time to prepare for them. Darting into nooks and crevices, levitating to hide among the stalactites above or simply disappearing in Invisibility Circles, the rebels quickly cleared the tunnel and settled down to wait.

_Don't attack unless attacked,_ Imloth signaled from his perch. Across the way, Tarnash nodded once. Ran'ree was invisible but he must have registered the command, too. Illiam and her clerics exchanged quick signals to coordinate their casts of blessings and silence. Hearts pumped.

Their only chance to survive lay in remaining unnoticed. If it was an advanced scout party, the rebels were content to let them pass; attacking them would be an idiotism. If it were a larger vanguard, attacking them would be a downright suicide. But if they got spotted… than all bets would be off.

The Valsharess' party poured into the tunnel. Even on a casual glance, it was apparent something was off. There were only between twenty and thirty of them – too few to be an actual vanguard, but proper numbers for an advanced scouting party. However, they did not move in an orderly, organized fashion a scouting party should. They seemed battered and winded, almost as if running away from something.

A soft breeze brushed Tarnash's ear. He heard Vic'qualin's soft whisper come from it. "_There's no one behind them… and only one priestess is with them…_" The warrior mage observed the group from as far back in the tunnel as he dared to go, suspended high between the stalactites by his innate ability of levitation.

Tarnash frowned. Something was clearly not right. He looked across the tunnel and caught Illiam's gaze. _Ask your goddess,_ he signaled to her. Illiam did not argue. Closing her eyes, she grasped her holy symbol and started praying. Normally, she would not bother her goddess about something so trivial as a decision whether to attack or not, but the situation was not normal. And a wrong decision meant certain death.

She felt the tendrils of her Augury leap across the Planes and touch the aura that was Eilistraee. She posed the question. The goddess answered. Opening her eyes, Illiam turned to Imloth and nodded grimly. _Kill them._

Imloth nodded and brought his crossbow up. The marksmen around him did likewise. Those on Tarnash's end followed suit. Invisible, Ran'ree skittered aside, not wanting to get pierced by dozens of bolts about to fly down.

Triggers clicked. Bolts burst in a shower. Spells joined the spray. Startled yells filled the tunnel below. Contrary to all expectations, Imloth grinned. And leapt into the fray.

_& & &  
_

The skirmish ended quickly. After the initial surprise attack, the rebel warriors cut through the enemy group swiftly and efficiently. They still suffered losses, though. Once, they were a large army, and while those who fell (at least on Eilistraeean side) might have been mourned briefly by several close friends, the casualties, on the whole, had been taken in stride. With less than a hundred of them now, whatever losses they had counted much more. For both Vhaeraunites and Eilistraeeans alike. The reprisal for each fallen rebel had been merciless.

Imloth snapped the hilt of his double-sword and split the weapon in two. Stepping over a corpse, he slid one blade into a scabbard and aimed the other at one of the few enemy survivors that staggered before him. The wounded male looked at him with more fear than anger and dropped his blades in surrender. Imloth glared.

"_Speak,_" he ordered, aware of other rebels gathering round.

"_The… The Valsharess… is dead…_" the male stammered. Silence fell over the battlefield instantly. Looks of surprise and disbelief splashed across every face in attendance. Tarnash ambled closer, beginnings of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Imloth narrowed his eyes.

"_Go on._"

The male shuddered, clutching his wounded leg. "_The… The iblith…_" Tarnash's eyes lit up. "_She… She killed her…_" the male breathed out. Imloth threw Tarnash a quick glance. The evil, triumphant grin that spread on the Vhaeraunite's features beamed so brightly it nearly scorched his face. He looked back at the male.

The prisoner swallowed hard and continued. "_The… baatezu took over… Sort of…_" he blurted out. "_We… Some of us… Some tried to turn back… Others… died in the Wilds…_" he paused for a moment, gulping for air. "_The baatezu and… those who remained… loyal, hunted them down._" Imloth nodded and lowered his sword.

"_And you…_" he prompted.

The male seemed somewhat relieved that the blade was no longer aimed at his throat. "_We… evaded the baatezu and tried to reach Skullport,_" he answered, a bit more courage entering his voice.

"_How many such groups?_" Imloth asked with a blank face. All other survivors had been summarily dismembered by now. This was the last one.

The male looked around him and shook his head. "_Just us… Me,_" he corrected himself quietly. Imloth smiled at him.

"_Thank you,_" he said amiably, grabbed the male by the hair and drove a blade through his guts. The male collapsed in a gurgling heap. Imloth withdrew the bloodied weapon, whirled it around and stabbed it through the male's back in a coup-de-grace.

Illiam let out a quiet gasp. Ran'ree smirked. Tarnash raised his eyebrows and regarded the Eilistraeean appraisingly. Imloth ignored the lot and stepped over the corpse. "_Get the wounded up and lets move on._"

_**& & &  
**_

"_You want to understand the tanar'ri? Here's how: Look into yourself. Find the core of hatred there. Even if you're one of the purest berks in existence, you'll still discover the part of you that's blacker than any ebony. The part that tastes of bitterness, despair and envy. The part that tastes, most of all, of rage at all the things you can't change and all the things you might have._"

_(excerpt from "Faces of Evil: The Fiends")_

He moved through the tunnels wrecked with anguish and grief. His rage burned down to cinders, smoldering deep in the pit of his stomach. He wished for it to return. He wanted to burn in its blazing fires again… to lose himself… to not know. Anything was better than this searing pain he lived.

A wave of loathing rose deep inside him and washed him ashore barren sands of defeat. Failure laughed in his face mockingly, its rotting breath hot in his heart.

He threw his head back and howled in despair. His bridges twisted and burned as he walked them, igniting the roaring flames in his chest again. His world had died, but he still drew breath. His heart was shattered, but it still pumped blood. His soul was decaying, but still blistered with wrath.

A movement caught his splintered attention, a ghost from the past coming into view. From bowels of memory, an image arose and burned itself deeply into his skull. Conflicting emotions attached themselves to it, distorting his vision and scorching him black.

He roared out in fury, blending with the beast. Hot tears of shame welled up in his eyes. Raked by sorrow, boiling in agony, he brought his flail up and leapt for the kill.

_**& & &  
**_

A flash of pale blue light stopped the rebels in their tracks.

Kimmuriel stepped out of the portal and glanced around impassively. Both him and his four soldiers seemed perfectly at ease, even though more than fifty drow instantly whirled around with weapons at the ready. Only for a moment, though.

Though not nearly as readily identifiable as the previous Bregan D'aerthe leader, Kimmuriel's face was still a known one. Its sharp, expressionless beauty accentuated by cold eyes seemingly devoid of emotion were familiar to many a rebel hailing from Menzoberranzan. Only those who came from the Promenade did not immediately recognize the dangerous male… or the significance of his appearance.

Imloth brought his hand up, signaling to his troops to stand down. Tarnash lowered his blades and eyed the psionic curiously. Illiam frowned.

"_Bregan D'aerthe,_" Ran'ree murmured into the priestess' ear as he sauntered forward. Illiam swallowed. Though the male was not known to her, the name of the band most certainly was.

The wizard nodded to the psionic politely. "_Kimmuriel._"

It took the psionic a moment to recall the male's name. "_Ran'ree,_" he returned the greeting.

Tarnash cast the wizard a quick glance. Ran'ree smirked and shrugged lightly. He had dealt with Bregan D'aerthe in the past and had no qualms about doing it again.

Imloth ignored the two and eyed the psionic instead. "_State your business, Oblodra,_" he said flatly.

For a second only, a brief flash of anger crossed the psionic's features before his face became impassive again.

"_Sinvyl is dead,_" he stated casually.

"_We know,_" replied Imloth dryly. "_What of it?_"

"_Mephistopheles now walks the streets of Menzoberranzan in flesh,_" Kimmuriel informed the rebels, causing many to flinch. "_He has rallied the ruling Matrons to his cause. The conquest will proceed as planned._"

Tarnash cocked his head. "_And you are telling us this, why?_"

"_Bregan D'aerthe is not a war band,_" the psionic said matter-of-factly. "_You will catch up with us in less than a day._" His eyes narrowed dangerously."_I will not suffer any losses to my band._"

Imloth matched both the psionic's stare and the tone of his voice to a letter. "_Neither will we._"

Kimmuriel nodded. They understood each other.

"_And what's in it for us?_" Tarnash asked. "_Aside from 'our lives' and all that, I mean,_" he added cynically, correctly guessing at the psionic's most likely answer. Kimmuriel eyed him levelly and glanced briefly at the former soldiers of House Maeviir.

"_There is always a place for skilled mercenaries in Bregan D'aerthe ranks,_" he offered to the cavern at large. Tarnash flashed him a mirthless grin and shook his head.

"_Honored, but I kinda grew fond of being my own master lately._"

Kimmuriel shrugged. Ran'ree caught his gaze.

"_I believe I shall accept your offer."_

Tarnash cast the wizard a sideways glance. "_Did I bore you that much already?_"

Ran'ree chuckled softly. "_On the contrary – Life around you is a bit too interesting for my tastes, I think._"

Tarnash raised an eyebrow at the unpredictable mage. "_And you want piece and quiet?_" Ran'ree nodded with a small smile. "_With Bregan D'aerthe?_"

Again, the wizard smiled. Or at least, the corners of his lips curved up. "_Once this is over, of course,_" he addressed the psionic. "_If your offer still stands._"

Kimmuriel nodded. "_It does._"

"_Ah, very well,_" Tarnash sighed and lifted his hands in surrender. He turned to face the rest of his band. "_Anyone else who wants to join is free to do so, far as I'm concerned. I don't own anybody,_" he finished with a shrug. He turned to the psionic again. "_But we remain as we are until we reach Skullport._"

Kimmuriel tilted his head. "_Skullport it is, than,_" he said and, with one final nod to the general assembly, brought up a portal and stepped through. His four soldiers followed and the portal closed behind them. In less than five seconds, it was as if they had never been there at all.

For a while, the cavern remained perfectly silent. And then Vic'qualin scratched himself behind one ear, coughed, and looked around him brightly.

"_All right…_"he smiled broadly, radiating an aura of pure, ignorant innocence that could have fooled somebody who didn't know better. "_Could someone tell me what was that all about? Small, chewable bits, if you'd please?_"

Tarnash snorted at the spellsword, perfectly aware that Vic'qualin knew damn well _exactly_ what just went down.

"_What just happened, my dear idiot,_" he said, and slapped him across the back of his head, "_Is that we've been kindly asked to do a bit of a Red Sister killing on our psionic's friend behalf._"

Vic'qualin's eyes twinkled eagerly. "_Ah. Why didn't you say so?_" He brandished his blades andgrinned evilly."_When do we start?_"

_**& & &  
**_

"…_and even though I tried, it all fell apart  
what is meant to be will eventually be  
a memory of a time  
I tried so hard and got so far  
In the end, it doesn't even matter  
I had to fall, to lose it all  
In the end, it doesn't even matter "  
("In The End," Linkin Park)_

A flail shot out in an arc. A roar of fury and grief followed its path. And the dancer stood perfectly still.

The demon raged, both hands on the weapon, his whole body put into that one, single strike. Left leg out front, right leg back, starting out low and swinging ahead with all the raging might of madness behind it... And for an instant only, something pierced through the red curtain of the demon and reached the man behind. Just for an instant, but an instant was enough.

He felt a gaze upon him, vacant and calm. Not at the weapon, not at his body – At _him_. Into his eyes. And something stabbed him from within.

Someone once looked at him, when he was a mindless beast. Not like this, empty and detached, but into his eyes nonetheless. Sad and serene… and straight into his eyes. Someone once looked at him, when he was a mindless beast. Someone dear. Someone dead. No longer watching him… but for a fleeting moment, right then, as his weapon reached the peak of its flight, making him look at himself.

A fleeting moment, between life and death; and a warrior body, jolted to react.

_& & &  
_

The flail comes down, flying, at the skull easily smaller than the weapon's head. The trajectory is unchanged, the might of the swing too strong, the weapon's head too far out. Only split-second left before the murder is done. Without a thought – the body does it for him. A knee-jerk reaction. Literally.

Left foot twists, slipping on the ground. Left knee bends. The leg slides back, pulling the body back with it. Left elbow shoots up and out, the weapon still flying unhindered. But pulled a bit closer, changing the arc ever so slightly. And the weapon's head flies whizzes by, just a mil away from the face. And shatters the stalagmite beside them.

_& & &  
_

The stone exploded under the blow, sending shards up in a spray. Sharp pieces of rock flew through the air, stabbing themselves in their faces and their sides. Valen fell down on one knee, barely feeling his arms, his palms prickling from the strength of the blow. Shi'van stumbled to the side, a shower of stone sending her into a stagger. Behind her, Karandras rolled over on his back, kicking his hinds through the air. And laughed. A sheer, hysterical laughter of sudden and unbridled relief.

_Just your bloody, rotten luck!_ he roared in her head in between bouts of near-choking glee. She ignored him, though the truth of his sentiment found a corresponding echo inside her immediately. He couldn't stop rolling and laughing regardless. He had just passed straight through the death-door and emerged, completely unexpectedly, on the other side of reason.

A mere second ago, he was crouching in the shadows, cringing in dread of what was about to come. A snapping of a bond, like a part of his soul was about to be gutted with a heated blade of pure ice. And the worst part – he couldn't stop it. Not this time.

Once, just once, she managed to act in accordance to her deathwish; just once, her body complied and remained in place instead of darting away from danger and death. He couldn't interfere, no matter how much he wanted to. She'd never forgive him if he did.

But at the last possible moment, the flail's path was altered. That one single time when she finally managed to stand still to die. And that one moment was all it took. One moment, after which she wouldn't be able to regain such control again. The only chance for death – wasted. Just her damned, rotten luck. Karandras couldn't remember feeling more relieved in his life.

The moment had passed. And something inside her stirred. She rose up from the stagger, her skin shredded and trickling blood.

Valen released his flail and slammed his fist on the ground. "_Damn you, Darkblade!"_ He pulled his left leg close to his body and breathed hard, rage exploding in him like a star. "_Damn you!_" He roared and, still kneeling, turned his face to her. "_I won't be your executioner,_" he hissed through his teeth. "_You won't use me again._"

She stared, unblinkingly, and stepped closer, drawn to his fury like moth to the light. Like vampire to blood… Like corpse to life.

He rose to his feet, slowly, rage and pain mixing a steam-boiling brew. He looked her in the eyes. A ball of pain pushed into his throat. His chest shuddered, a sob caught between his teeth. She held his gaze, in complete silence. Unable to move; unable to walk away. Hot tears blistered down his face. He was long past the point of shame. She never had any to begin with.

Masks stripped from their faces, maggots feasting on what once had been, they stood naked before each other, in a sequel of decay.

Her lower lip trembled for a moment, as if she had problems remembering how to speak. When she did, her voice was a single flat note, just this side of perception.

"_Sinvyl is dead._"

He stared at her. His face muscles twitched. A fist punched his heart. Sinvyl was dead… It meant everything. And it meant nothing at all.

"_Does it matter?_"

"_No._"

It was a simple word, conveying a simple meaning. And horrible in its accuracy. It didn't matter. Nothing did. He looked away and clenched his teeth. If nothing mattered, than why did it hurt do much!? Damn it!

"_Does anything?!_"

His anguish rolled over her like an oily wave, splashing viscous fluid across her skin. It seeped through her pores, and sank into her flesh, dissolving into nothingness that ate her from within. For a moment, it tingled softly beneath the surface, reminding her that even nothingness hurt. Void was ever-spreading, but her chest cavity was only so big. The creaking of her ribs as they bent under pressure strained a small string in her voice.

"_I don't know._"

He sank to his knees, a study in defeat. She watched him. Infested pus coagulated on his horn, where a barbazu glaive took good two-thirds of it off. His hair stuck to his face and his neck, glistening with sweat and stiff with dried blood. His armor was dented, his face stained with grime. Bare skin of his arms was glossy and pale, sickly so, in those spots visible underneath the soot and crusted lines of blood. The last third of his tail lay limp, skin and tissue scraped off in shreds around the spot where two vertebrae had broken.

She came a step closer.She sat down, folding her legs beneath her. She didn't let go of her sabers. She looked at the tiefling, listened to the quiet, angry sobs that escaped his throat. And she waited, calmly, with patience befitting the Void. The dead were in no hurry, and had all the time in the world. Sooner or later, he would talk. And she would listen, and understand. She was good at it. Whores were.

He felt, but did not care, about blisters on his chest and back where his shirt rubbed against bruises and wounds and salty sweat bit at them with every movement he made. He had lost weight in these past few weeks. He survived on raw meat of whatever he had killed and made it on lichen and rock in between. Tiefling anatomy allowed him to gain base nutrition even from minerals. But they didn't amount to much. His muscles were melting, and his strength waning.

He looked at her, sideways, and was met by a silent, empty stare that communicated nothing; nothing, save deathly calm. The blaze of his grief melted in her cold, droplets of throbbing dejection hanging like fine mist in the air between them.

"_Why are you here?_" he croaked.

She shrugged, indicating that everything's got to be somewhere.

"_Why did she do it?_" he asked, desperate for an answer he knew she couldn't give. She stared at him blankly, waiting for him to explain. He squeezed his eyes shut, but there was no comfort there: Whenever he closed them, he saw them dying, saw the Seer fall and saw himself turn a beast. And beat his once-friend to a bloody pulp on the wall.

"_Nathyrra…_" his voice faltered, under the assault of both anger and sorrow. "_She betrayed… In the end… she went back to herself._" He lowered his gaze, his last words a silent whisper of hurt. She went back to herself… They all did.

"_She did as she was,_" a hushed voice answered and he looked up again. "_She would have, in the end._" His gaze bore into her, willing her to tell him otherwise, willing her to tell him anything… anything but the stark, bitter truth. But of course she wouldn't, he knew that well. That's why he asked.

"_Tell me._"

She told him. In as little words as she could spare. She told him what Sinvyl told her. She told him nothing of Nathyrra he did not already know himself. There was no comfort there, only more pain and shame, pouring despair over his open wounds. And no compassion in her voice as she spoke. There couldn't be. She had none. But there was… understanding of sorts. He did not have to say what things meant to him. Or how. Or why. She knew. And there was something soothing about that fact. He was grateful he did not have to explain; he took comfort in the knowledge that whores simply knew.

"_I killed her…_" he whispered. He condemned himself for it at the same time not condemning himself enough. And he blamed himself for that more. She didn't. Whores never judged.

"_And she killed the Seer, and I was once alive… Water under the bridge._"

"_A bridge that burned,_" he sieved through gritted teeth.

"_Bridges do._"

He glared at her. A stray thought came to him. "_How were you with her? How'd you break the Geas?_"

She shrugged. "_A pit fiend wished it off me._"

"_Why didn't you stay?_"

She paused. "_I don't know._" He waited. She looked inside. "_I… am a property. But I belong to myself. I won't be owned; my flesh is my own. …That much has changed, between Calimport and now._"

"_No vengeance?_"

"_No. Just ownership._"

He nodded. He had been owned too, once. He never noticed the chains until he tried to break free of them. But now he knew they had been there, and that was enough. What to do once they were broken was another issue entirely. He had known, once, but not any more. His anchor was gone, and his reasons with it. And now he was adrift the currents on his own and he didn't even know _what_ he was any more. A beast he had tried to escape or the man he had tried to become? He didn't even know if he wanted to try any more. Or why did the very idea of not trying wound him so.

He looked at her, and found the very sight of her face spurred his soul into wanting to change… into wanting to be _anything_ except like her. His dark mirror…

And he finally understood.

He reached out. She flinched, recoiling form touch, unwittingly tightening the grip on her weapons … but did not leap to her feet or jump back. He touched her cheek, gently, and brushed a few shards away with the back of his hand. She winced, not from the pain of having tiny pieces of shattered rock removed from her skin, but at being touched at all. The feeling of bare skin against hers spread a wooly ball of nausea through her stomach and lurched up her spine, numbing her senses and sending her mind away. He withdrew his hand. She loosened the grip on her blades and forced herself to breath out.

"_Why did you keep stabbing me?_" he asked softly. "_Long after the fun had gone out of it? You kept provoking, all the time, wasting venom on words that meant nothing to you. You never even cared for what I said back… _"

For the first time, there was no accusation in his voice. A tinge of sadness, perhaps, at things being what they were, but that was all. She stabbed him, baited him, hurt him… And he fell for the bait almost every last time. Now, he had no more strength for anger; he just wanted to know why.

She looked at him, a fleeting frown touching her features. "_You mean you don't know?_"

He shook his head. "_No._" He suspected the answer, but could not shape words around it. He needed to hear it from her.

She studied his eyes, a memory of an old habit making her look for traces of anger there. A memory of disappointment at finding none briefly touched her chest, but a memory was all it was. Once, she would have been upset by the lack of a snapping response, but it did not matter any more. She was still there, and could not walk away, pinned to the spot by craving for what he still provided. His pain was even more potent than his rage…

"_You burn. When you rage, you burn. You scorch. Whatever you do… you__ feel__. I… am empty. Most I can… could… achieve is bitter. But the way you burn… the sheer strength with which you feel… I can warm to that. You're alive. I'm not; I just exist. But I can feed on life. And I did. While I could…_"

And that was it – the simple, naked truth of what went on between them. She worked it out long before he did; though introspection was a painful thing, she always kept her most venomous bites reserved for her own veins. Once, long ago, things might have been different. Once, she could have even felt something for him, attraction, perhaps, some semblance of sanity… But that was back then, when they were different people. When he still had firm ground beneath his feet. When she was still capable of feeling something at all.

He stared, but did not accuse.

"_You used me…_"

"_I use everybody._"

"_You take. You don't care who hurts, or why._" He shook his head. Not angry, resigned. "_You just take… and give nothing in return._"

"_I take… Others take what they need - want - from me. By themselves. If they can grab it. Or want to. …You did._"

He stared for a while. And then he nodded, the truth of it settling softly over his bones.

"_I did…_"

He did. When he wasn't sure, when his mind filled with doubts… when he faltered and lost strength… She was there. Unfailingly, with her mocks and taunts, holding up a mirror to his soul… Making him stand against her. Whether he even believed his own words or not… They were true, as long as they were opposite of hers. Through their confrontations, he was reassuring himself.

He knew it was a lie, now; he knew he was _not_ what he had hoped to be… And he knew, now, he never truly _wanted_ to be everything he had set out to become. But while the illusion lasted, it lasted because of her presence. He fought, passionately, to prove her wrong… In reality, he fought, in vein, to prove himself wrong.

And her calmness, her cold, detached silence, rubbed off him. When she was near, he had an outlet. When she was away, he had more peace. And the control he so deeply craved. And perhaps, within that deadly calm that she had planted inside him, enough peace was born to finally accept the truth of himself; to acknowledge, and without shame this time, that his ideals were not his own and that his principles were not as pure as he once thought them to be.

He looked at her, gazed deeply into her eyes, and found a new peace slowly well up inside him. And even that, even his growing calmness, was emotion of sorts. Not the dead pragmatism that guided her steps, but an emotion, tranquility almost, that was as passionate as any he had felt. And _that_, too, was a flame of life. And she could bask herself in its glow. She knew it. And he knew it also.

He stood up, holding on to this strange, new calmness he had found on the other side of rage. He held out his hand, beckoning her to rise. Without him, she was dead; without her, he would go mad. He bent down and picked up his flail.

"_Let's go._"

She climbed to her feet and stared.

"_Where to?_"

He glanced at the tunnels beyond and shrugged.

"_Wherever._"

She followed his gaze.

"_What for?_"

He shrugged again.

"_Because. …It's living, of sorts._"

She made a step.

"_Until something kills us…_"

He turned to face her.

"_Or we kill each other…_"

She paused and blinked.

"_Fair enough…_"

And then they walked away. The end behind them, a sequel ahead... In aftermath of decay. It _was_ a life. Of sorts.

_**& & &  
**_

The rebels attacked Bregan D'aerthe from behind and the mercenary band replied with equal force. The clash was fierce and left both sides severely crippled. The remaining survivors scattered throughout the tunnels, running for their lives in desperate attempts to get to the Port of Shadows on their own.

Or at least, that was what the few remaining Sinvyl's agents would report to their contacts once they – conveniently – managed to reach Skullport.

The only thing Kimmuriel had to take care of right now was to keep his band properly shielded from scrying eyes until they and their new-found rebel allies made it to Skullport safely. Several smaller groups were already on their way, making sure that what agents were allowed to escape the carnage got there first and delivered their reports as intended.

The bulk of both forces was still with him, though. He only waited for one final group to join up before they, too, were ready to depart. The commotion coming from the far side of the cavern told him that the final group had arrived.

Beaten and bloodied, Yasvyrae trashed and cursed as she was hauled in, but was powerless against the two warriors holding her hands and the third one holding a blade to her back. Kimmuriel treated her to a cold little smile. Several members of his band edged closer to the subdued female and leered.

As Kimmuriel and his mercenaries left the cavern alongside the rebels, a dozen or so Bregan D'aerthe soldiers stayed behind. They had been given an hour. And a permission to do as they please. As long as they keep it quiet and dispose of the corpse after they're done.

_**& & & & &  
**_

It had been a week and the Port of Shadows was ready to defend. Bregan D'aerthe had arrived, and Lith My'athar survivors with them. Surfacers gathered in the city. The Skulls were attentive, but had not reacted as of yet. The invading army was a day's march away. Skirmishing with the vanguard scouts had already begun in the tunnels to the west of the city.

Still, for all the skirmishing at its very gates, it was business as usual in Skullport. Goods were paddled, slaves were being examined, sorted and sold, the hoists were operating and backs were being stabbed… No matter what, trade never stopped in the Port of Shadows.

If the invading army outside ended up victorious, then at least the Skulkers would have gained one last handful of coins they could before the city was overrun. If the invading army failed… well, then there was no point in wasting precious trading weeks, was there now? In any event, whoever marches – or crawls - back into the city will undoubtedly want rest and refreshment. And the Port would provide.

In the meantime, slaves were bought by hundreds to serve as fodder in the tunnels and for once, even the pesky Chosen had no time to intervene. The surfacers, lured by coin, morality, or both, poured into the Port from the City of Splendors upstairs and they all wanted better armor, or weapons, items of shielding, darkvision, healing and gods only knew what else. In the end, they all wanted a place to rest or some company to take their minds off the battles ahead. It was business as usual in Skullport; even better than usual.

The tentative alliances the bigheads had formed would fall apart the moment the battle ended, regardless of how it ended. And doubtless, they would all use the oncoming struggle to settle a personal score or two along the way.

The Iron Ring – the largest slaver organization with more fractions within it than one could count, worked their own agendas both on the battlefield outside and within the city. The agents of the beholders and the mind flayers worked furiously to ensure their masters emerged from the conflict with profit to show, no matter how the tide of battle turns. The Zentharim, The Kraken Society, Waterdeep Lords, The Harpers, The Arcane Brotherhood... everybody who was anybody had an agenda and an interest in Skullport. The army of Menzoberranzan at the gates was a dangerous calamity to some, a welcome arrival for others, and a perfect opportunity to work their own schemes into it to everyone involved.

House Tanor'Thal, the branch of the larger House from the drow city of Karsoluthiyl, was the stronghold of spider-kissers in the city, or at least, as much of a stronghold of faith as it could be in the city in which the Skulls had forbidden any shrines of faith to be built. As such, it was a sore spot to the eye of the Vhaeraunites of the Port. Malakuth Tabuiir, a slave trader and the leader of the Dark Daggers of Skullport made certain that, at the end of the day, House Tanor'Thal would suffer.

When first of the Bregan D'aerthe scouts arrived, they immediately contacted their trade allies in House Tanor'Thal. The scouts that scouted the movements of scouts contacted Malakuth instead. And then their leader, a psionic of considerable power, arrived as well. A business agreement was easy to reach, with both sides standing only to gain. From there on, it was a simple matter of fleshing out the fine details.

House Tanor'Thal was a trade ally of one or two minor Houses of Menzoberranzan. Houses that, conveniently enough, supported Matron Bar'ritar from the start. Kimmuriel of Bregan D'aerthe easily convinced some other, more powerful non-noble Houses (that served as a front for one of the ruling ones) that they would stand to gain much if they established their own trade footholds in Skullport by ousting the competition there.

And so Bregan D'aerthe would remain "allies" with the Tanor'Thal and join what little forces Kesra Tanor'Thal had sent out into the tunnels to secretly join the invading force. Unlike Malakuth's associates, the faces of Bregan D'aerthe members were not known to the Tanor'Thals. That made them perfect assassins.

Kimmuriel stood only to gain in that deal. Not only would Bregan D'aerthe draw payment for their kills from two coffers simultaneously – the Fifth House of Menzoberranzan _and_ the Dark Daggers here, the band would also gain a foothold of their own in the local markets. And that was only the beginning of their plans…

_& & &  
_

Meanwhile, deep in the wild Underdark, a ghostly trio still haunted the caverns…

They had barely talked. They had nothing to say, to each other or otherwise, both lost in the confines of their own tortured, or empty, souls. They merely walked on, finding strength in hearing each other breathe.

_**& & &  
**_

Karandras' ears perked up. He stopped. Behind him, Valen narrowed his eyes and brought the flail up. Shi'van slid to the side, wrapping shadows around her. The darkness before the trio stirred. And out from the shadows, a Shadow emerged.

Karandras pressed his ears to the skull. Valen gripped his flail tighter. Shi'van stepped out and looked down at her hand. The Relic of the Reaper was warm on her wrist. She looked up. The avatar strolled over to her, giving Karandras a pat on the head in passing.

"_The army is still marching on Skullport,_" he said, his voice like bladed silk through velvety shadows.

Shi'van stared blankly. "_'S none of my business…_"

The avatar moved. So did she. They started circling each other. He, with eyes and hair green with curiosity; she, to keep him in sight, avatar or not. It was a knee-jerk reaction with her. Vhaeraun's eyes grew greener still.

Valen took a step back and stared. There was nothing else he could do. Karandras sauntered over and joined him, his link with the dancer all but shut off at the moment. The two shadows kept circling each other, and only glimpses of Shi'van's movements and the avatar's eyes and hair gave the two Planars any inkling into what went on between the god and his reluctant agent.

It was like a dance. Two shadows moved around one another and the shadows whirled around and between them. Tendrils of blackness wrapped around their bodies, converging and dispersing to some silent rhythm – sliding gracefully, the movements almost seductive in their flow.

_& & &  
_

Black shadow hugs him smugly. _**The lizard rider lives.**_ Her shadows float, uninterested. _Good for him._ Pale blue, a glitter of gold. _**An unexpected bonus.**_ A shadow twinkles in darkened eyes. _Because you just "happened" to be around?_ A chuckle. _**You called me.**_Her shadow shimmers. _Lith My'athar fell…_ Gold! _**But its rebels live.**_ Shadows blaze black. _Then leave me alone._ A streak of grey across her face. _**No. **_Her shadows condense. Black tendril edges alluringly about her waist: _**I have one more job for you.**_ She recoils; black shadow caresses her skin. _Don't go there…_ Oloth and Charr quiver. A twinge of panic – shadows shroud her tightly. But he is shadows! Black tendrils slither, like velvet snakes around her. Intimate… seductive… She shrinks back; shadows tremble, rapidly. Blackness stops. Slowly, gradually, it slides back, away from her shades. She breaths. _**You fear me…**_ No blue. _No! Just leave me be…_

Black shadows glow. _**A job needs to be done.**_ The Relic grows warm. _**Done by you. You are attuned…**_ Her shadows grow angular; a whiff of cold surges through them. The Mercenary asserts itself. _Then I'll have payment._ Black shadows stiffen. _**You'd bargain with me?**_ A flash of red. _I have to. _She recalls her lore: red for anger, blue for amusement, green for puzzlement, gold for triumph… The inner cynic gets a deathwish: _Though I'd earn more playing poker with you…_ A second of stillness. Gold! He laughs. _**What is your price?**_ She shrugs. _What's the job?_ He tells her. She stares. _I'll die._

Deep black draws softly over her face. _**Is that a bad outcome to your mind…?**_ She shakes the black away. _No – I am bad __at__ it._ A burst of blue. He laughs once more. _**Your price, then.**_ She tells him. Blue again. _**I see… **_

He dances in closer. Black shadow touches her forehead. His fingers touch her lips. Bargain sealed. _**Done.**_He dances away. _No – One more thing…_ Green, tinged with red. _**What?**_ She asks. He considers. Blue… It made sense. And a tiny speck of gold. _**…you might not be **__**that**__** lost, after all**_. A shade of green. A momentary tremor disturbs her shadows. _When this is over… perhaps I'll find out._

Black brushes her cheek. He nods. _**You shall have your boon, then.**_ And slowly, gracefully, he ends the dance.

_& & &  
_

The avatar danced away from the dancer, wrapped his cloak of pure blackness around him and, giving the two Planars a sly wink, vanished in shadows. Shi'van blinked. Her gaze fell down on the Relic on her wrist. She had no bindings placed anywhere. She threw a sideways glance to where the avatar had disappeared. There was one placed now…

Valen looked at her quizzically. She placed Oloth on the ground and reached into her bag. She produced a bloodstone from it and touched it to the Relic. The gemstone crumbled, and a reddish column of pale light shot up from the ground. Karandras trotted over. He nuzzled Shi'van's shoulder. Valen nodded towards the portal and glanced to where the avatar had been standing a moment ago.

"_What was that all about?_"

Shi'van picked Oloth from the ground.

"_I got hired. …To die._"

_**& & &**_

* * *

_**Another Note: **And this, ladies and gentelmen, was the next-to-last chapter of Shadows. Only two more chapters of this saga to go - The next chapter as the 'official' last one and the following one being an epilogue of sorts. Both chapters are curently in the works, though due to RL issues, I'm not sure when, exatly, will they be ready for posting. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this one at least as much as I enjoyed writing it (even if it _was_ a pain to write at times)._


	39. The Masked God

**Author's note: **Here at last! The final chapter of Shadows, here for your reading pelasure, or displeasure, whichever you choose it was. It is possible, but not very likely, the chapter will still recieve some additonal brushing-up, for I am posting this without sending it for a final round of editing first. I just itched to post it, so there; kept you waiting long enough anyway. There will be an epilogue after this, because some things still need to be tied up properly, but for all points and purposes, consider this the final "real" chapter of the story. Enjoy! ...hopefully.

* * *

**The Clash of Shadows**

**chapter 26 **

**The Masked God**

Tathrak crouched on the ledge and wrapped the piwafwi tighter around his shoulders. His fingers briefly touched the mask that covered his upper face. The lower part of it housed a sly grin. It always amused him, that curious hiding game he played.

Clerics of the Masked God, by default, did not flaunt their faith openly. The Shadow worked in secrecy, always - In Skullport, more than anywhere else. Proselytizing was not looked kindly upon by the Skulls; the ones attempting it despite all the warnings soon found out just _how_ unkindly.

Masks, as a rule, were items used to hide something. Tathrak kept his off most of the time. In the city, with no mask on, his face was known, but his faith was hidden. Out in the tunnels, some leagues away from the Port, his face was hidden, but the truth of his faith was revealed. He chuckled softly into the darkness. The contradiction of his existence was as thrilling as it was lethal. That was the beauty of it.

Sounds of skirmishing in some side tunnel below reached his ears. It was a common sound lately. He let it fade into the background and focused on the sounds in his immediate vicinity. He knew he wouldn't hear the approach, but he kept his ears pricked just the same; it was a force of habit. He settled down to wait.

For over an hour, nothing disturbed the air save the distant sounds of a battle dying down further in the passages. A darghazar swooped low across the cavern. Darkness behind Tathrak stirred. He heard nothing, but he felt it. He didn't turn. A shadow separated itself from others. A masked male approached soundlessly and sat down beside him. The priest bowed his head. The avatar smiled lightly.

"_The hour draws near._"

The priest gazed into the darkness. "_Your agent is recruited?_"

The avatar nodded. "_Of course._" His eyes twinkled blue, matching, for the moment, the color of the priest's own. "_Did you doubt it?_"

The priest shook his head. Being asked such a question by your god could be quite an unpleasant thing. But there was no threat in the avatar's voice.

"_You know how I feel about females…_"

"_Of course I know,_" the soft chuckle of the avatar stirred the shadows.

Tathrak sighed. He changed the subject. "_The whole Underdark will be watching._"

Vhaeraun cocked his head. "_It doesn't already?_"

Tathrak's lips curved up. "_They're watching, all right… They couldn't keep their eyes off of it if they wanted to._"

"_And we'll give them a sight to remember._" Suddenly, the avatar's eyes lit rich gold, his hair appearing as if soaked in blood. "_Where will it take place?_"

Tathrak shrugged. "_Grand tunnel, most likely. All the forces are converging there._"

The god nodded. "_It will do…_"

Tathrak turned to him. "_And the Skulls cannot reach it._" Which was a good thing, yet his voice grew grave. "_The baatezu are tough. Too many fell to them already. They just might push closer – maybe even reach the city entrance…?_" He shook his head in dismay. "_I don't know how strong the Skulls are… Hells, no one knows but the Skulls themselves. Still… Will they be strong enough to withstand Mephistopheles, if it comes to that?_"

Vhaeraun snickered. "_It won't come to that. You just make sure my agent makes it as close as possible._"

Tathrak looked at his god. He had placed a huge stake on a single wild card – the actions of a colnbluth female that, up until a while ago, even _he_ did not know for certain if she would play along or not.

"_Is she really that good?_"

The god laughed. "_I don't know. That's the beauty of it._"

Tathrak eyed him curiously. The god shook his head.

"_It has to be like that. We are against the baatezu here. And the only right way to fight them is with chaos._" He looked at his priest. "_It's the uncertainty of actions, the not knowing, until the very last moment possible, just what, exactly, is going to happen. Who will choose what? And how well will they do? It all comes down to the individual choice and capability in the end,_" he finished with a grin.

Tathrak nodded. His god stood for cooperation among his followers, as opposed to the constant, fruitless backstabbing of the Spider-kissers, but instead of a large, cohesive force that strived to dominate all, his followers worked, first and foremost, on individual basis: personal initiative, inventiveness and wit were the credo by which Vhaeraunite society operated. That was the Shadow's doctrine and soon enough, it would show the Underdark far and wide how superior it was to that of the Spider. The priest's unusual blue eyes glowed. The baatezu were thorough, but even they couldn't find schemes in the shadows that weren't yet there. And by waiting for the last possible moment to add another trump to the deck, his god gave Mephistopheles no time in which to react.

"_And you believe your agent to be capable enough, then?_"

Vhaeraun smirked. "_I'm counting on her to be._" He turned to the priest again. "_Just as I'm counting on her to stay alive. She proved herself quite useful thus far._" He winked.

Tathrak thought about it. There was a group of new followers, almost fifty strong, that had recently arrived in Skullport. Reputedly, it was his god's agent that had initially pointed them – or at least their leader – in the Masked God's direction. And made it possible for the avatar to appear in the flesh much sooner than expected in the process. And all that while, apparently, trying to do something else entirely.

He remembered the newest addition to their ranks in a form of a foul-mouthed lizard rider. By what he had heard so far, converting people to Vhaeraunite faith was the last thing on her mind when she had encountered that one. It was doubtful if she had anything on her mind – or even a mind itself – at all at the moment, actually.

She just… happened to be bringing new followers into his fold left and right while pursuing her own goals. Perhaps it had something to do with the item she was carrying around? In a sense that Vhaeraun-favoring reality somehow wrapped the adjoining one around the relic and its wielder, in a purely metaphysical way.

But still, it all came down to individual spur-of-the-moment decisions… with unpredictable consequences… that his god merrily took and incorporated into his plans, as they came up. Understanding dawned on the priest's face. The god smiled at him.

"_I see you worked it out. Well done! We'll make a decent priest out of you yet._"

Tathrak's lip curved up slightly. "_Have I not served you well thus far?_"

Vhaeraun appeared amused. "_We'll see… What offerings did you bring?_"

Tathrak smirked and reached inside the folds of his cloak. "_Do I have to make an altar first, or will you take them as they are?_"

The god snickered. "_We can skip the formalities._"

Several items exchanged hands. While Vhaeraun, in his powerful avatar form, hardly ever needed additional aid in form of magical items, he still valued and treasured the offerings given to him by his faithful. But when dealing with baatezu, every little thing that could give an extra edge counted.

The avatar rose to his feet. His priest also.

"_Who is she, anyway?_" he asked, curiosity finally getting the better of him.

Vhaeraun placed his chin onto the base of his palm and cocked his head to the side. "_Ask Malakuth to tell you about a certain Darkmask from Ched Nasad he once knew. The one who led the Dark Daggers in Calimport about… ah… four decades ago. Z'hinrett._"

The priest nodded, got up and turned to leave without another bow. Groveling was for the soulfood of the Spider, not the Shadow.

A dark speck of red flashed in the avatar's eye.

"_Don't let this fail, Tathrak,_" he said quietly, and this time, there _was_ a threatening note in his voice. Too much depended on this to trip on the last step of the way.

The priest stopped briefly, taking a moment to take this final warning in fully before he disappeared into the darkness. Alone again, the avatar ran his fingers across the offerings the priest had left, pondering the steps he was about to take. Of course there was a back-up plan, should the first one fail. It generally amounted to this: Adapt. Act as you see fit. There were countless contingencies, but which one will he fall back on –should circumstances dictate he does so- was a mystery, even to him.

Still, he doubted it would come to that. He glanced at the cavern below and reached out to his followers with his mind. He noted their positions, briefly scanned their surroundings and nodded to himself. A few hours, before the final showdown; Grand Tunnel, according to Tathrak. He chuckled. Time to go…

_**&&&**_

Explosions shook the Grand tunnel. The walls glowed in hues of destructive magic, chunks of stone falling off, flying up into the air or simply melting in viscous rivulets of steaming lava. Bolts and arrows sizzled through the air in a never-ending stream of hissing death. Clang of steel merged with prayers and curses. Screams and shouts deafened the ears of both Underdark and surface dwellers alike. The ground was running liquid red.

_**&&&**_

Abandoning the skirmishes still going on at the outer pathways, a small band moved through the side tunnels with haste.

"_They say Halaster is in the tunnels,_" a priestess said as they paused before a bend.

Iljrene nodded. "_He is._" It was clear from the tone of her voice that she considered that to be a good thing. Her words were received with nods of assent. Insane as he may be, Halaster was as powerful an ally as they could hope to get.

Illiam shook her head and grasped her blade tighter. It was good to be home at last. Or at least, that's what she's been telling herself. Initially, when she finally laid eyes on the Promenade after more than a year of absence, the feelings of relief and safety washed over her in mighty, soothing waves. But at the same time, there was a disturbing undercurrent of… an estrangement of sorts. After all this time, and especially after the days she had spent in the Wilds, she came back changed. For better or for worse, only time was going to tell. And she wasn't the only one.

Only when they reached the Promenade did the change in Imloth become so strikingly evident. He had changed, grew more dark, more severe, more… drow in these past few months. Death - his own, the Seer's, two-thirds of their troops - had left a burning brand on the Promenade commander. Burning, perhaps, enough for Imloth to leave the Promenade all together after this was over? Illiam sighed. Such a scenario did not seem unlikely at all.

It was this morning when the word had reached them – Valen was alive. And not only alive, but here as well – in the western tunnels, to be more precice. Members of the Promenade took to patrolling and skirmishing in the eastern ones. The western ones were where the Vhaeraunites and other darkness-lovers prowled. And Imloth went there immediately.

Illiam ran a hand through her hair, making a mess of it while trying to put what lay beneath it in order. When this is all over, she thought, when this is all over… That had been the litany she, and everyone else beside her, had lived –and died- by for months on end. But now, as her group swiftly moved through the tunnels, heading for the Grand one where the final showdown would soon take place, the litany's end seemed to be in sight at long last. This _will_ be over. One way or another, it will finally end. And whatever might come after it will have to wait. For another several hours. Until this was all over.

_**&&&**_

A blaze of white exploded in a circle, rays of holy magic shooting out at the charging barbazu. The paladin group formed a line before them, the clerics behind them chanting in unison.

A mound of bodies groaned and wailed as a squad of surface warriors charged over them, their arrow formation stabbing itself into the dark elf ranks. A bolt of lightning exploded in the middle, forking and leaping from man to man in sharp, crackling arcs of blue doom.

The lizard riders stormed down the wall, charging at the defending groups' flanks and sending their targets into a disarrayed retreat. The abishai swooped from the ceiling, scattering any who found themselves in their path. Streaming through the shadows, the hidden blades on both sides sired panic and death.

_**&&&**_

"_I didn't think I'd live to see the day when you are rushing to join our ranks,_" came a mocking voice from the shadows. Imloth stopped and gave the blue-eyed priest a sideways glance.

The Chosen and the Dark Daggers always had strained relations; that was to say, they were in a constant state of open hostility. A year ago, Imloth would have probably leapt at the Vhaeraunite's throat on sight. After having to spend so much time around Tarnash, the Eilistraeean commander's tolerance for Vhaeraunites diminished even further. His skin, however, had grown much thicker where off-hand insults and smug attitudes were concerned. He eyed the priest levelly.

"_The world is full of surprises, Tathrak. And so am I,_" he said, letting a single threatening note reverberate through his words.

Tathrak chuckled. "_Next thing I know, you'll be wearing a mask._"

Imloth smiled dryly and with little humor. "_Dream on._"

_**&&&**_

Up from his perch on a stalactite high above the ground level, the god patiently observed the ongoing combat. He wasn't the only one – The whole Underdark was watching this battle, whether through spies, scrying enchantments, or even astral projections. There was hardly a power circle above or below that wasn't, to some extent, highly interested in the outcome of today's events. Mephistopheles' involvement saw to that. It suited Vhaeraun's designs perfectly. He only needed to remain hidden just a little while longer, and then…

_**&&&**_

Several Dark Daggers and some of their non-drow associates as well as few Bregan D'aerthe members huddled in a recess some way away from the Grand Tunnel. Tarnash glanced at the group around him and, despite feeling the vibrations of stone beneath his feet as the most deadly battle since Lith My'athar unfolded several yards away, couldn't help but smirk.

Only a part of his original band was here – the rest had split up in smaller parties and joined the priests of the Dark Daggers that, just like this band, skirted the main battle lines. But unlike those bands, this one would soon be joining the main battle head-first, as instructed by Vhaeraun himself. Exactly when, how and why would be revealed as soon as the high priest arrived. Whatever word he brings, Tarnash was certain it would have the new arrivals as its main focus.

Some hours ago, the tiefling they all thought dead simply popped out of the blue. Or, as it were, red. And with him, another face from the past stepped out.

Tarnash pursed his lips and stole a glance at the silent shadowdancer. A brief nod of recognition was all the greeting she had offered. Other than that, she looked a walking corpse, and not just because her eyes had deep dark rings beneath them and her ribs showed even more than usual.

He had seen a it before, back during the House attack - The vacant stare behind a pair of blades. Well, at least now they were in an old pair of scabbards instead of her hands. For the time being, anyway.

A commotion from up ahead as two figures walked into view shook him out of his thoughts. The Dark Daggers around him tensed. Recognizing one of the newcomers immediately, Tarnash chuckled under his breath as they approached.

Though he was walking right into the group of traditional Promenade enemies, Imloth paid them no heed. Ignoring the hostile stares around him, his eyes were focused on Valen alone.

A horn stump was the first thing his eyes were drawn to. That, above all else – the bearely healed tail, dented armor and all-out haggardness - spoke more than Imloth cared to know about his friend's trials as of late.

"_Valen…_"

The tiefling stepped forward. "_Imloth._" His voice was hoarse and strained.

For a few moments, they merely stood there, holding each other's gazes. No one dared interrupt. No one felt like being summarily dismembered by either of the two.

Tathrak silently moved past them, his eyes scanning the shadows inquiringly.

The two weapon masters stood still. Back where they had started… Closing the circle, they both returned changed. But not enough to sever the ties of friendship between them.

Imloth strode up to Valen and grabbed his lower arm, just beneath the elbow. The tiefling, snapped from the motionless stupor by the gesture, returned it in kind.

"_It's good to see you again,_" Imloth said quietly.

Valen nodded. "_You, too,_" he whispered back. _Now lets end this_, an unspoken sentiment passed between them.

The danger of immediate dismemberment now obviously behind him, Tarnash called out, breaking the spell of quiet stillness that fell over the group. "_And just when I thought I was finally rid of you._"

Valen gave him a glare. Imloth merely grinned. "_Sucks to be you._"

Meanwhile Tathrak found what he had been looking for in the shadows. His god told him the details of his plan, but offered very little information about the one whose role was to see the final part of it through. Ignoring the warriors' reunion, he crossed his arms and carefully studied his god's agent. What he saw did not impress him much.

If there weren't for the color of her hair and very slightly pointed ears, she could pass for a pure blood human. Even like this, she looked as if only a portion of elvish blood ran through her veins. What little blood there was to run through them, that is. Top it all off with the empty stare she gave him, and Tathrak was fairly certain that if she were dead, he could animate her corpse and get a slightly better result.

He took a step closer, coming within her blades' reach, and found that he had suddenly acquired her full attention. The fiendish shadow of a wolf that, up until then, sat lazily by her side stood up and eyed him carefully. The priest frowned and, sparing the beast only a cursory glance, addressed the woman.

"_You know what you are to do?_"

A blink. A nod. Good. Tathrak turned to the awaiting group.

"_This is the plan…_"

_**&&&**_

The center of the tunnel burned bright. Licking the stone, hellfire raged and devoured all in its path. Cornugon circled the major combat pockets, raining death from both above and below. The gelugon ranks attacked from the flanks. In the middle of the cavern, Bethurru, the general of the baatezu army and one-time lieutenant to the late Valsharess, raged - a terror-inspiring sight for both enemies and allies alike.

Izar soared through the air, surveying the battlefield, keeping herself behind the main lines and mentally directing her army's movements. Bethurru stood at the front, unleashing wave upon wave of Baatorian fury on his foes. The large fiend had been severely chastised for being away while Mephistopheles' pawn was being killed. Now he had to give his very best to regain their lord's favor again.

Izar's features reflected flames with a wicked-looking light - an expression frightening to mortals, but to the baatezu, the little smirk of someone who knows she would attain the rank of a noble before her counterpart did.

_**&&&**_

For a moment only, before the Mirror's surface swirled into the image of the outtunnels, Kimmuriel caught a glimpse of his own reflection in it. He looked, to be brutally frank, like something a rothe chewed up and spat out. Staying on top of the game all these months was steadily taking its toll on his features, if not on his mind, though even that was probably just a matter of time. He dearly wished all this to be over as soon as possible.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he focused on the item at the table before him. Malakuth leaned forward, his attention divided between his new ally, the image in the Mirror and, above all else, the curious critter that operated the item.

"_There they be!_" Deekin exclaimed triumphantly as the last of the mist cleared up to show a group of Menzoberanzzan drow milling about a certain tunnel's mouth. Malakuth arched a questioning eyebrow. Kimmuriel nodded briskly and instructed Deekin to start scrying the next group of interest and then the battle field at large.

The plan was unfolding as designed. No sooner then the Tanor'Thal forces left the city to join the attacking forces, the Bregan D'aerthe detachment assigned to their group slid their blades into their "allies" unsuspecting backs. The mercenaries then remained beside the bodies, awaiting further instructions. If they were to deal a serious blow to House Tanor'Thal, as was Malakuth's design, they needed to discredit the House as much as possible. Planting the dead bodies right in the middle of some of the defending forces' corpses, making it appear as if the Tanor'Thal's died fighting against the city would be one way to do it. Since that was what Matron Kesra was expecting her forces to be doing anyway, it wouldn't rise much suspicion in the young Matron's mind. Should the defenders win the day, the fact that her forces were found fighting against the city would give her enough things to worry about beyond the possible treachery on part of Bregan D'aerthe. And Malakuth would know how to seize the opportunity that Kesra's shaken reputation will provide.

There was, however, another angle to cover. Tanor'Thal forces were to meet with the attacking group at some point. Should Kesra learn her soldiers never even arrived at the rendezvous point, she _would_ grow suspicious more than Kimmuriel wanted her to be. Therefore, the band her forces were to meet must die as well – a task gladly taken by Malakuth's own group. The first image Deekin brought up confirmed the enemy group pending elimination was still in place. The second image showed the Dark Daggers approaching them from behind. The third image displayed the general battle overview and it was that image that Kimmuriel was now interested in the most.

Planting the bodies was his group's task and to do that, he'd have to find both a suitable time and place to do it without being noticed. Doing so in the middle of the battlefield would not be easy, even with the help of Silence and Illusion spells. He would have to choose both the time and the place carefully.

A quick survey later, and the psionic's mind was made up on both points. Without a word, he rose to his feet and brought up a portal that would take him to his band leaving, for the time being, Malakuth to enjoy the antics of an over-enthusiastic kobold on his own.

_**&&&**_

The leader of a small Dark Daggers detachment knew he had unwittingly led his group into a trap as the first lightning bolt crackled next to his head. As one, the group ducked for cover, but even as they did, it was clear there was no escape. Emerging from a side tunnel into a narrow space connecting it to the main cavern, with a steep ledge they just climbed behind them and a score of ambushers in front, the detachment was doomed no matter what they did. A Spider cleric, two wizards, a score of duergar and worst of all, a hefty number of abishai outnumbered them three to one and outpowered them at least ten times as much. Another volley of spells flew their way before they could even begin to retaliate.

The skin on his burnt cheek sizzling, the leader of the band gritted his teeth grimly and got ready for his group's final stand.

Up in the shadows, a pair of eyes lit up with rage. The rage was deadly; the light was flaming red. It was foolish, idiotic even, what he was about to do, he knew that as surely as he knew he'd do it anyway. The followers of Shadow were supposed to be able to fend for themselves; most other gods accepted losses among their faithful in stride, confident in the knowledge that they wouldn't run out of them any time soon. But the Shadow did not work that way, or at least, he chose not to work that way far more often then the rest of his divine counterparts. For, screw it all, to maintain many, you have to care for even a single one.

Eyes burning behind the mask and battlerage lighting up beneath it, the avatar somersaulted from his perch and dived down, his cloak spreading to absorb the spells flying his followers' way and his blades thirsting for spider-tainted blood.

_**&&& &&**_

White eyes flared, their glow amplified by the fires burning in the eight braziers surrounding a spider-shaped altar. The fiend's wings flapped open; its muzzle curled up in a mute snarl. A hiss escaped tightly-pressed lips and curled its way into a chant, followed by others as the ruling Matrons saw the same thing in the shimmering curtain of smoke that rose from the altar and hung low between themselves and the Baatorian lord. Their scowls were unanimous, as was the source that caused them, but the reasons beneath them were not.

The ruling Matrons knelt around the altar in the large prayer chamber of the Academy for hours now. High-ranking Matrons formed a wider, outer circle of two times eight around them and yet around those, an unclosed circle was formed by the Matrons of Houses twenty-four to forty. Beyond them, and all across the chamber, the ruling caste's kin, the leaders of the lesser and non-noble Houses and the resident Academy priestesses stretched out, their clear, dark voices filling the chapel with prayers and hymns as the ruling Matrons led the chant of summoning, coaxing and binding. The altar, the raised dais upon which it stood, and the rest of the floor ran slick with sacrificial blood. And behind it all, at the far end of the chamber and obscured, somewhat, by the screen of mist, a gigantic fiend stood straight and tall, maintaining the spell of scrying that surged through the misty veil as he prepared to walk the mortal realm once more. And it was in that smoke that an image of a drow, black on black and hazily outlined, flashed through, trailing a line of angry, destructive red.

The avatar! To the priestesses, the enemy; to the archfiend, a once-time ally, source of information and now, a source of anger. Until it became a source of knowing amusement instead.

He kept his snarl plastered on his face, for the benefit of the assembly. Soon enough, the priestesses would coax him out of Cania and enable him roam the mortal world freely. He could do it regardless of their efforts, but in things such as this, proper form should be observed. A part of him enjoyed the formality, actually. And why not? In the next few minutes, he, and the essence of his entire layer with him, would pass through the gateway and step into the swirling lines of power – the power of sheer belief, flowing from the sacrificial slaughter of an entire city, done by his bidding and in his glory.

And the godling just couldn't keep away from it, it would seem. Ah well, so be it. It was, after all, only to be expected. Vhaeraun had little followers, he was therefore a fairly personal god, compared to most others… when it suited his designs to be so. And he was protecting his own, Mephistopheles saw in the glimmering smoke. It mattered little to the Canian duke whom the avatar chose to battle, as long as he didn't try to put a blade into the fiend's back. It didn't appear he was making such an attempt – though one could never be too careful where Shadow was concerned. What transpired was, all in all, but an expected course of events. And one that could, potentially, turn out more useful to the fiend than the avatar.

Though actually seen by only the select few, the avatar's presence was nonetheless powerful - See how the battlefield seemed to freeze for a second when the masked entity's aura flashed through their skulls. And if the minute appearance of the avatar in shadows commanded such sudden attention, how greater will Mephistopheles' own presence grab? The grandeur of his planned entrance alone would outshine the avatar's ten to one. And the entire Underdark was watching.

As it well should, and with baited breath, for it would soon witness the presence of a true power, one that would outshine even that of a god himself. Oh yes, the Shadow's reckless action would only serve to contrast Mephistopheles' planned one better. The poor fool just did him a favor!

The chant of the priestesses reached yet another peak and this time, Mephistopheles felt a definite tug at his soul. Gathering his essence about him, the devil felt his body take on the properties of its prime material form as it slid through the layers of milk-white mist. As he set one, and then the other foot onto the solid stone floor, the hellfire he carried within him roared to life across his skin, scorching the corpses lying on the ground and signing the few priestesses closest to him.

The next moment saw him engulfed in smoke, for a second lingering between the prayer chamber and the battlefield far away and then he was gone – out of the mist, and into the battle raging in his name.

_**&&&**_

The smell of sulfur preceded the explosion that shook the cavern to the core and momentarily stopped the battle mid-swing. The aura of power and hell-born flames washed across it in a gigantic wave, sending lines of combatants to their knees and the baatezu present in pure frenzy as the source of the whole thing begun to materialize amidst the havoc that announced him.

Shadow's eyes flashed bright flaming gold as Mephistopheles finally decided to enter the scene. At last! The chaotic tread he had been weaving for so long would finally close a full circle and tighten like a noose around the least-suspecting, most-pompous neck currently in attendance.

"_Now_," he silently intoned to his high priest and almost chuckled at an irritated "_No Shit!?_" he caught in the mortal's mind. He couldn't get himself to get angry at the snappy sentiment, which he wasn't even meant to hear by the way, and certainly not while said sentiment was buried underneath a pile of pure, undiluted "_OhshitOhshitOhshitOHSHIT!"s. _He knew his priest's heart was still in the right place – he couldn't rightfully blame him for his bowels not sharing in his devotion right now.

"_Masked Lord, protect us,_" another thought flowed through his mind, more coherent this time and shared by every last one of his followers currently around.

"_I will,_" he reassured his priest, not in actual words, but with a feeling instead, a potent, shadow-clad presence, encompassing all his followers at once.

"_I will,_" he repeated the sensation, this time to his priest alone, "_You just do your job._"

"_And I will do mine,_" he added to himself and slipped into the darkness that was his and his alone.

_**&&&**_

It would be, Deekin decided, pointless to attempt a description at this point. His reptilian eyes pinned to the mirror, the little kobold was, for the first time in his career, glad he wasn't in the middle of the epic events unfolding nearby. He would find the proper words for this later, he was sure, but for now, all he was capable of was to stand and watch, jaw hanging open and tail a-twitch.

The invading force had pushed the defenders back much closer to the city then anyone thought they would in just a few hours. Not just the wizshades, but the Skulls themselves were rounding up at the city's edge, as far as their arcane ties would allow and were ready to defend to the last. But now _the_ invader came into the picture and all bets were off. Not even the Skulls could hold the lord of Cania back for long.

But they would try, In vain, most likely, but they would try. Just as every last person in the defenders' ranks would, or so the sights in the Mirror said. Deekin caught himself going through his available arsenal of spells, wondering if he had any Teleport spells left. Very far ranged ones, if at all possible.

And he wondered also, and not for the first time, where in the name of the Planes was Boss right now.

_**&&&**_

They broke into run, with Valen spearheading the assault and Imloth and Tarnash on each side correcting his course so as to avoid engagement whenever possible. It was the speed they were after, not the body count – suicidal as their run might have looked from aside, it was never their intention to engage in combat with the minions of the most – or at least the second-most – powerful entity the outskirts of Skullport had seen in ages. They weren't even attempting to get close. They only needed to get close enough.

From what Imloth could tell from a glance tossed at breakneck speed, Valen appeared to have definitely lost it. Flailing the Devil's Bane left and right in wide arcs (and causing his closest companions to duck far more often then they would have liked), the raging tanar'ri-spawn looked, and probably felt as well, just as he had on the countless battlefields anywhere on the Planes before this one. It was as if all of the Seer's work of the past several years had been cast out the window in one single, careless swipe of a hand. The thought should have stung him rather painfully, Imloth knew, but right now, it didn't, really. And he hardly felt embarrassed about it at all. Partly, it was his drow pragmatism reasserting itself, telling him in calm, measured tones that charging through fiends with _this_ Valen at his side was far better than doing it with any other Valen around. And partly, Imloth realized with the clarity reserved specially for near-death experiences such as this one, who was he to pass judgment anyway? He, an Eillistraean commander, recently finding new coldness and lust for battle renewed, and currently charging headlong into destruction alongside a Vhaeraunite straeeka squad? The pure irony of it hit him so hard he laughed out loud like a maniac on the loose. There was no doubt in his mind he was fast becoming one, too.

Taken only slightly aback by the sudden outburst, Tathrak privately cursed loony Eilistraeeans in general, and one lunatic in particular, and resumed his chant. It wasn't easy, running at full speed, chanting protective spells to cover this suicide squad of his and keeping an eye on the silent dancer running next to him at the same time, but he was somehow managing it. Most of all, he was looking for miniscule signs that would tell him the shadowdancer was ready to make her final leap – a sign for him and the rest of the group to stop dead in their tracks, fall flat on the ground and pray to whatever powers chose to listen that it'll all happen in an area with at least some cover available. He was certain of at least one power answering their soon-to-come prayers, but right now, the more the merrier didn't sound like such a blasphemous idea after all.

Her instinct of "don't be naked" screamed in defiance as Shi'van sheathed her blades once they became an obstruction in keeping up the pace. She compensated by clutching the hilt of the stiletto tighter in her hand, as if the puny few inches of thin steel would somehow make the difference in this short, deadly run. The bracelet-like artifact on her left wrist had been heating up steadily in the last few moments and now it had almost singed her wrist. Not pausing in her tracks, she absentmindedly fumbled with the latch, eventually sending the thing sliding off her wrist and onto her palm. It got promptly signed. To which she paid no attention at all. What attention she had was reserved for the burning beacon of hellfire straight ahead - impossible to miss and getting closer with every next gulp of breath – and the relative distance between it and the surrounding shadows it cast. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she was vaguely aware that she should have been frightened shitless by now; the mere presence of the fiend was, by its very nature, sending waves of terror at least good ten feet around it, and merely healthy fear for yards beyond that. But for some reason – be it a protective spell, her own apathy or any combination of the two, she wasn't afraid. Just… numb. Which meant business as usual, apparently. And the usual business always consisted of looking out for the next shadow to dart in. Like that one over there – neat little thing between two rocky outcrops, convenient hundred-odd feet away from the one right next to the flaming duke.

Tathrak barely had the time to react as the skinny figure suddenly vanished from sight.

And reappeared right behind the gigantic devil.

And jumped…

_**&&&**_

The world imploded. That was it. In the first moment, there wasn't even a sound to accompany the event. Only dead silence in which reality twisted, instantly killing off any creature, mortal or planar, in a fifty range around it. And then, it _ex_ploded, and the circle of devastation was much larger this time, taking out everyone still standing on their feet and quite a few of those who didn't as well. The number of instantly blinded alone required more zeroes to write down than Deekin had paper available.

Several large stalactites broke off from the ceiling and plummeted down into the chaos below. Some reached the ground, piercing it like gigantic spears and shattering in the process, yet others plunged into the swirl of magic in the middle and simply… disappeared. Or melted. Or got transported into some other world entirely. No one was certain, and no one bothered to ponder, either; everyone still alive was still trying to make some sense of what just happened in the first place. Even the Skulls paused to take notice, the raw, wild magic drawing their attention as surely as light attracted the flies.

One moment, Mephistopheles was there, in all his hellfire glory; the next, he simply wasn't. In his place, there was a swirling vortex of madness, twisting the cavern and dragging bits and pieces of various dimensions into the same, swirling spot, the center of which consisted of pure black, even though the flames that rose as high as the ceiling should have illuminated it to the point of blinding.

And then, a lone figure took shape inside it – Black on black, radiating power and eyes glowing gold behind a mask. Everyone saw it, even the blind, the pure power stabbing the image straight into their skulls, and suddenly everyone knew – Who was behind this, and who would claim victory.

The Masked God's plan had finally been fulfilled.

_**&&&**_

A multidimensional rift was a fascinating thing to observe from inside. A myriad of colors, the crackling energies, the swirl of the sounds, muted and at the same time so stingingly clear, and a 360 degrees vision enabling one to marvel at it all. Though time spread outwards, following the concentric circles of flames in the wake of explosion, speeding up to its normal pace as it reached the edges of the interdimensional pocket, at the very center of the vortex it stood perfectly still. It enabled the one within to dazedly observe the events at her leisure mercifully ignorant abut what happens to a body when simultaneously caught in an exploding fiend while being stretched through several Planes of existence at once. The effects were undoubtedly not pretty, to say the least, but inside the indefinite second that didn't pass, there existed no time in which the damage could happen. And so for that time's being, she was content to just watch.

Off on one side, roughly through where the left portion of her skull should be, she could see, or feel, a powerful ripple running down the black-and-red power lines that flowed on the currents of magic from a dark chamber somewhere far away, connecting an even further away place of malevolent ice and its embodiment that currently shrieked all around her. The ripples intensified, and eventually reached a frequency so high the power lines simply snapped under pressure, their suddenly loose ends lashing out angrily like a disturbed nest of desert snakes. The lashes, it appeared, caught the transparent mist that separated the "here" and "there", blowing it aside and, in doing so, forcing the "here" and "there" to temporarily occupy the same spot.

A wave of powerful dark blue and black washed over her senses as a huge shroud fell across the scene, not unlike a curtain fall suddenly darkening the stage. At first, she couldn't make sense of that disturbance in her line of vision, nor of a thick, metallic shaft that appeared next, but as the dark curtain moved once more, her gaze crawled up to reveal a wickedly curved blade topping the shaft and a strangely-familiar looking cowl right next to it.

She never realized just how huge an entity The Reaper truly was and perhaps, a part of her mused, that was just as well. Truth to be told, she never really tried sizing him (for some reason, she always thought of it as 'him') up before, and even if she had, the only relative reference system always consisted solely of a chamber that appeared no larger than a Calishite privy and as large as the sultan's grand courtyard. And often at the same time at that.

Slowly, the scythe's blade sloped slightly downwards as its wielder leisurely brandished it while making elegant, purposeful progress towards the "there" side of "herethere". It was almost dignified in its nature, though a certain menacing quality certainly wasn't lacking. For a moment only, Shi'van thought she saw the cowl turn slightly her way as The Reaper made his progress over, or straight through her, and give her a single, perhaps not even unfriendly nod. Or maybe it was just her mind playing tricks on her again. Either way it was strange, her thoughts offered idly, how even from this downward angle, she still couldn't make out his face or even the contours of one. And perhaps that, too, was just as well.

The mist closed around the back of his robes as the mysterious entity moved fully into the "there" and the "herethere" begun unraveling itself into "here" and "there" once more. The last thing that passed through the fast-waning barrier into the "here" side of it were the angry, but mostly startled drowish screams.

The show apparently over and congealing mist blocking her vision anyway, the dancer turned around to observe the other side of the spectrum where events no less interesting were taking place. If one side of the vortex was now covered in fine misty white, the other one was dominated by pure, ink-like blackness.

It was often said that the light was needed in order for shadows to exist. That isn't quite true – Light is needed only to illuminate the shadows better, and only on Prime Material planes at that. Beyond the veil, in the realm of the dark, the shadows cast their own reflections. It was a realm she once passed through, though obviously, not _this_ particular part of it. It was also the closest she ever got to thinking of as akin to home.

And within it, twin torches of gold surrounded by a stream of the same glowed in triumph and in defiance to common laws of optical physics… or any laws at all.

The whole thing looked like a cavern mouth, a gaping hole in reality, so intrusive, yet so much in place; there was no better way she could describe what she was seeing through the right side of her skull right now. An opening of blackness that, like vacuum, sucked in the light, the sounds, the debris… everything in its path, really, up to, and including, an enraged-looking devil whose name or significance she couldn't quite remember at the moment. The creature got pulled through the lightless maw like a lump of rock, the flames that licked its dark-red skin flickering out of existence the moment they touched the overwhelming dark. The only glow inside was the gold – prideful, triumphant gold.

The Shadow moved, gliding through shadows in a way she herself could only dream of, and all around it, the world itself seemed to momentarily fall apart. Bits and pieces of reality shattered or simply evaporated, swirled and combined only to dissipate again and form something entirely new… or absolutely nothing at all. Shapes and forms, so outrageous the mind screamed against the mere possibility of their existence, existed regardless, in potential, as well as in reality. Each one unique, each one capable of existing and operating under its own set of laws, each set of laws only one in a myriad of other possible ones and each susceptible to change at whim – each only as permanent and unchanging as the chaos from which they spawned allowed. The only permanent fixture in the whirlpool of chaos was the golden-glowing shadow – as permanent as it wished to be at the moment and the center from which the entire display spread out. The shadow that _was_ of the chaos, as surely as everything else in existence was and in full attunement to it.

The display seemed to hurt the shrieking fiend physically, and it was still far less painful then the psychical pain it caused. As the creature twisted and whirled through the cacophony of anti-order it seemed to realize, though never able to truly accept, that its entire existence was but a tiny speck in the realm of potentials – as significant, or insignificant as any other and ultimately, nothing compared to the primal source from which it, too, sprang to existence and to which it may return at any given moment for no predictable reason other than simple whim.

It was on this level that these entities truly communicated; what could be seen by mortal eyes or heard by mortal ears were but the reflections the entities cast around them that mortal minds interpreted the best way they could given the what poor equipment they had. Catching a rare glimpse of it could, technically, be called a privilege, but truly, it was but an unintended side-effect of being caught, for a moment, in a timeless spot amidst the raging flames. A coincidence, at best, and one that would, very soon, come to a quite painful fruition.

The only reason her physical body had not yet burst into pieces or collapsed in on itself was that the same energies that had stretched it across several dimensions and twisted it like a grotesque corkscrew also kept the whole structure in one piece – hopefully one rearrangeable back into the same form as it had been before. In part, it was due to the fact that the main force responsible for the explosive creation of the dimensional vortex was the same one that once kept the Relic of The Reaper in one piece - The force she had been attuned to for quite a while and as a result, the now-scattered magical treads still recognized her as a familiar pattern that should be allowed passage and preserved through the process.

But while the impromptu multidimensional experience might leave her relatively unharmed, if outrageously dizzy, by itself, the physical laws of her own realm of existence had no obligations to be as charitable to her frame.

The rings of fire extended outwards, the hot blast of air and burning rocks clearing everything in their path. As the wave of destruction spread out, time slowly crept back in. Her attention caught by a sudden blaze of red, at first Shi'van blamed the blur in her vision on the sudden brightness. But instead of her vision clearing up, it only grew darker, and tinged in scorched red. Inside the vortex, she could 'see' things with senses other than mere visual ones; in Prime Material, it was difficult to see anything if one was missing an eye.

A tug at her body brought up a memory of a very recent and very intense pain. She felt herself being yanked and next thing she was aware of was the blazing flames rapidly approaching. Next second, all the physical sensations returned to her in full. Time finally caught up with her body in one single, overwhelming blast; like a crossbow bolt long-overdue, she was propelled out of ground zero and into the harsh reality beyond.

_**&&&**_

Vhaeraun turned to the battlefield beyond the vortex, tossed his head back and begun to laugh. It was the sound of pure victory that left his throat and carried across the cavern on the wings of divine, cutting into every ear and stabbing into every heart present – sharp, black needles of danger and velvet all at once.

Though a creature of shadows, he was well aware of the power of theatrics and this time, he harnessed that power fully. Standing victorious for all to see, with the duke of Cania writhing at his feet like a mere imp, the entire Underdark now knew beyond doubt, who was the more powerful one of the two.

He had tricked the duke into his demise, saved (he couldn't help but chuckle at the very thought) Skullport, sent his enemies running with their tails tucked between their legs and above all, revealed to any and all the impotence of the Spider and the strength of the Shadow.

His victory was complete. And his prize great and manifold.

He had the duke at his mercy, and that meant he had access to the knowledge that thus far, only the duke possessed. The Spider was fading away, by now, she was gone almost completely, and only Mephistopheles, through channels of his own, had an idea of what was going on. Now, Vaheraun would have that knowledge, too. Not all of it, for the duke knew little himself, but a starting edge was all the Shadow needed to start planning his next moves in the power struggles to come.

He had been manipulating Mephistopheles from the start for that reason alone, and found the duke as easy to fool as he had expected a baatezu to be. Shrewd and cunning, like all baatezu, Mephistopheles had one key fault: he was a creature of law. He could see the grand pictures as well as any of his station, but simply couldn't see it from any other angle but the one he embodied. Not when it came to the Prime Worlds at least.

Mephistopheles was an arch devil and he knew his Planes, but Vhaeraun was a god, and he knew his mortals. And he knew how unpredictable, how truly chaotic they really were. It was something Mephistopheles simply _couldn't_ see and thus, the keystone of all of Vhaeraun's designs. What Mephistopheles couldn't see, he couldn't anticipate nor fight against. And thus, the duke was brought down, not by the god, but by the mortals the god had enlisted.

And now, even more would come into his fold. His actions today, crowned by the showy spectacle he had purposefully made of himself, ensured that. Already he sensed the change of hearts in many out there. Most of it would not be long-lasting, but some of them would, and that was enough. Neither he nor his followers had violated the unwritten rules of the Skulls who banned all open preaching within their city. This all took place outside their boundaries. And yet, by this time tomorrow, Skullport's hidden shrine to the Masked God would have many new followers flocking inside it. And the Skulls, though they would surely grow aware of it at some point, would not do anything about it. After all, he _had_ just saved their city, yes?

And among those followers would be a band of rebels from Lith My'athar he never even counted on at first. It was sheer irony that his delusional sister had seen it before he did. It spoke volumes of her own flock of followers that even her wisest failed to understand the true meaning of Eillistraee's words until it was too late. A stray and still very pissed lizard rider would be there, too, he knew – all unexpected bonuses in the grander design of things.

And so much of it owed to the simple chance finding of a misplaced item of his out in the Shadow Plane some two years ago…

_**&&&&&**_

With the god standing there in his full might, hellfire raging even as the devils blinked back to their home plane all around, and the explosion only beginning to settle down somewhat, no one even noticed a burning missile of flesh shooting out of it. But the god took notice, and thus it came to pass that, contrary to all the laws but those of pure chance, the flying body landed on top of a pile of other bodies, narrowly missing every last melted weapon protruding from it.

Not that that would do the body much good in the long run – a missing eye, its entire right side charred into a near-unrecognizable mess and numerous broken bones piercing almost all of the vital organs didn't spell life expectancy longer than few more breaths. Still, when Tathrak lifted his head, spotted a broken pile of flesh he identified as a certain shadowdancer and instantly, felt a sharp, divine-induced slap across the back of his head, he took the hint.

There wasn't much that Vhaeraun's (or any) clergy could do any more, but they would have to at least try. For Vhaeraun did take care of his own.

And didn't let those potentially useful to him go to waste.

At least not while there was a chance they may be useful again.


	40. epilogue

**The Clash of Shadows**

**epilogue**

"_Fading, falling, lost in forever  
Will I find a way to keep it together?  
Am I strong enough to last through the weather in the hurricane of my life?  
Can it be a conscious decision?  
That I look for ways to alter my vision?  
Am I speeding towards another collision in the alleyways of my life?"_

_( "Pain Redefined", Disturbed)_

_**XXX**  
_

The Port of Shadows buzzed as a beehive in the aftermath of the failed attack. Denizens of both the Night Above and Below crowded the streets even more then usual; the mercenaries and the opportunists were reluctant to leave the place that offered such a wide selection of opportunities to spend their coin.

Those less satisfied with the weight of their purses had ample chances to pocket more – The amount of corpses left in the wake of the attack was more then enough to satisfy any scavenger's needs. Three weeks later, the outtunnels were still crowded with roaming bands of goblins harvesting corpses to be turned into zombies and sold to the local labor facilities. Squabbles over the corpse-loot left behind were as common as darghazar dung; squabbles over the survivors even more so: with more then plenty slaver bands operating within the city, the demand still outnumbered the supply. Many a hopeful surfacer who came down to defend the Port for glory or gold woke up to its less pleasant sites after several drinks too many.

The word about the spoils to be had in Skullport spread like a fire, resulting in even more ships and caravans cluttering the city gates. For once, the Lords of Waterdeep did not interfere with the trade and even the Promenade soldiers were lying low. Both had more than enough wounds to lick and casualties to count to bother with the city that had, after all, been the last line of defense against the combined Hordes of the Underdark.

_**XXX**_

Sitting in an office near the warehouses, the leaders of the Dark Daggers and Bregan D'Aerthe were once again measuring each other up.

Lith My'athar. It was the prize they were both after. Zorvak'mur, the illihtid enclave, was gone, destroyed by the Promenade soldiers and their allies, and with it, an important trading crossroad was destroyed as well. But Lith My'athar still stood. And with its central position in the region - not that far from where the trading hub of Zorvak'mur had been - and a direct connection to Skullport via the Dark River…

The ancestral outpost of House Maeviir was a perfect candidate for a new trade center to replace Zorvak'mur. And supplied with inside information about it from both the Maeviir survivors and the psionic himself, the Dark Daggers and Bregan D'aerthe would easily take over the remains of Lith My'athar and claim it as their own. A safe place for both groups to conduct trade and gain information, monitor the caravans that passed through and get the first pick of goods headed for, or out of, the Port of Shadows.

And should a push come to shove, a place where both parties could easily stab one another's back in any number of creative ways they cared to devise.

Malakuth leaned back in his chair. "_Will you be returning here or leave straight for Menzoberranzan?_" The psionic wished to oversee the initial takeover himself.

Kimmuriel rose. "_I will return. There are still a few things I need to do here before I head back home._"

**_XXX_**

The half-breed stirred listlessly under the sheets. Aside from the shallow, irregular breaths, it was the only sign of life her body cared to give in the past few weeks. Tathrak harbored doubts that his charge would wake up at all.

The idea annoyed him - A mess of shattered bones and burnt flesh, it was only his quick wits that had saved her hide. …Such as it was. The spell he had used, the first that came to his mind, was the one usually used to preserve corpses and should have had no effect on the still-living bodies. In this case, though, it worked like a charm.

Now she at least _looked_ like something belonging to the world of the living. With several priests working hard over her battered form for over a week, most of her internal organs were eventually repaired and placed back into their respective cavities, hopefully in the approximately proper positions. In the end, even her eye was restored and back in its socket, although it would be a while before she regained the full use of it. She had been lucky with that – there was barely enough eye tissue left to even try the spells on.

Tathrak made a grimace and left the room. With all the time he and his fellow priests had wasted on her, the damned little iblith better come to.

**_XXX_**

Relon looked around. The chapel wasn't as big as the ones he was used to seeing. And certainly, not dedicated to the same deity he was thought to worship his whole life. It felt… weird, to say the least, and not a little bit wrong to be there, in the place sacred to the Shadow and sacrilegious to the Spider. Shadows curled deceptively in the corners of the room, lazily stretched across the floor and, occasionally, grew thicker around the central altar upon which rested a variety of offerings the sight of which made his palms sweaty with exaltation and fear all at once.

Other drow milled about, none giving the new face among them more than a cursory glance: whoever was allowed into the hidden chapel beneath Malakuth's mansion had the right to be there. Relon found the mild curiosity and lack of hostility strange nonetheless. An involuntary shudder ran down his spine as he glanced at the altar once more. The newest offering – a huge spider with a bloated belly full of little spiderlings that would never be was still twitching. Relon had to fight the decades of dogma driven into his very bones to not leap for the throat of the one who placed it there.

"_Old habits die hard,_" said a voice behind him. Relon spun about, startled. The blue-eyed priest watched him calmly.

"_I am not reading your thoughts, if that's what you're wondering. Though if you plan to take the psionic up on his offer, you might as well start getting used to the idea._"

Relon narrowed his eyes. He shouldn't have been surprised that the priest knew about his meeting with Kimmuriel earlier that day – the group he belonged to had its eyes and ears positioned everywhere in the city.

"_Of course we watched you,_" Tathrak said plainly, which only increased the rider's suspicions about being mind-scanned even further. "_We would be fools not to, before letting you enter this place._" He gave the rider a meaningful look through the slits of his mask.

The rider scowled. Up until recently, he had been as devout to the Spider Queen as any drow male was; it wasn't necessarily true devotion, it was just the way things were. But now…? Suddenly, things weren't what they were before and he found himself without allegiance, without connections and without a first clue of what to do next. Coming to Vhaeraun's shrine seemed as good an idea as any at the time. But joining Bregan D'Aerthe was a much better one.

"_You are so curious about my actions. Should I be gratified? Or just wary?_"

Tathrak shrugged. "_That is up to you. Though I'd say neither. Kimmuriel cares for the efficiency of his troops, not their religion. And we care to remain in the shadows._" He looked the rider in the eye. "_Personally, I enjoy stabbing the spiders. It's just that I'd rather not have to do it in here._"

He held the rider's gaze for a while longer, waiting for his words to sink in. Far as Tathrak was concerned, the male was free to do whatever he pleased as long as his actions didn't put the Dark Daggers in danger. Of course there were always numerous ways for things to go wrong, but that was the risk he had taken before and was willing to take it again. As long as there was no downright betrayal, everything else could be handled as it came along.

Eventually, the rider nodded. Tathrak motioned to the door.

"_Come then. They're leaving for Lith My'athar in less then an hour._"

With a resigned grunt, Relon followed him out.

**_XXX_**

Faint light flickered for a few moments before it seared upwards in an arch. The bluish glow in its center spread gradually towards the edges, thinning as it went along until its surface became glassily transparent, offering glimpses into the tunnel on the portal's far end.

Kimmuriel was aware of the wary looks some of the gathered drow had been giving him as he willed the magical gateway to life with his mind. He smirked inwardly at the stolen glances. He didn't have to be a psionic to guess at their thoughts and, more pointedly, the fears they'd been harboring: had he indeed opened a portal to their desired destination or had he just tricked them into a trap? His new allies distrusted him at least as much as he distrusted them, and for good reasons, too.

The news from Menzoberranzan was as bad as he had expected it to be. The aftermath of the Mephistopheles fiasco left the ruling caste of the city in chaos and disarray much greater than usual. That, coupled with the Spider Queen's continued absence meant that a myriad of possible scenarios was equally likely to unfold in the following months**,** and even Kimmuriel couldn't make an educated guess as to which was the most likely one. That meant he had to keep his band poised for every eventuality – a task made that more difficult by the same set of circumstances that were the reason for such heightened alertness in the first place. The last thing he needed right then was to have any links whatsoever between his band and the Shadow's followers.

And yet here he was, opening a portal into the tunnels not far from Lith My'athar for a mixed party of Bregan D'Aerthe and Dark Daggers forces to pass through. But for all they knew, it might as well have been a portal leading them straight into Menzoberranzan's out-patrols' clutches instead. If he were to gain any upper hand in whatever events were to come next, he would do well to get an early start in winning favors with the Matrons back home**,** and what greater act of good will then handing them a score of masked heretics, gift-wrapped and all?

He had considered the possibility many times over on his way here but in the end, decided against it. Dark Daggers would have much more value to him as allies than enemies. They were already fully entrenched in a city his band had yet to set proper foot in, they had contacts all over the place and they'd managed to avoid capture thus far. It was enough to recommend them, the psionic had decided**,** and the joint venture of their combined forces could yet turn into a veritable gold mine as well as provide both parties with further opportunities for both alliance and treachery.

Standing opposite Kimmuriel, Tathrak silently wove a spell aimed to confirm that the destination beyond the shimmering screen was indeed the correct one. Satisfied with what he saw, the priest turned from the portal and gave a slight nod. A score of Dark Dagger members approached and begun passing through. Mixed in among them, a number of Bregan D'Aerthe soldiers followed suit.

Kimmuriel watched in silence as the troops passed him by, his eyes watching no one in particular**,** but his mind focused on the muscular drow who lingered somewhat behind. The lizard beside him snorted and made an attempt to snap at a passing soldier, but the rider held its bridle firmly in hand. Outwardly, the rider appeared to be in full control of both himself and the beast he handled, but inside his mind, the psionic could feel the undercurrents of uneasiness at odds with his disciplined demeanor. Lith My'athar was clearly not on the top-ten list of places he wanted to revisit, now or ever.

Lizard riders were scarce in Bregan D'Aerthe. Having this one join up, the psionic reasoned, would be a welcome addition to his ranks. After he had scanned his mind for potential treachery, of course.

It wasn't difficult to convince the renegade male of the benefits of throwing his hand in with the band and this little trip to Lith My'athar would be a good test of his abilities, loyalties and, given his earlier experiences in the city, mental stability as well.

He turned to find the Vhaerunite priest's attention had the same focus as his. He raised an eyebrow inquiringly. The priest merely shrugged:

"_We're allies now, it would seem. We might as well learn to share._"

**_XXX_**

Staying at The Promenade was more than he could stand; Valen realized that the moment he laid his eyes on it. What had once been a place of new hope and a fresh start turned into a walkway of painful memories and crumbled dreams. Even prowling the city aimlessly for days on end seemed a better option then lingering there for a moment longer.

A chair scraped the stone floor as it got drawn back. The tiefling didn't bother to so much as lift his gaze as another estranged Promenader joined him at the table. While the Eillistraeeans did indeed try to persuade Valen to stay among them, they weren't, on the whole, all that reluctant to let the demon-breed go. They were far less willing to let one of their more capable commanders do the same, but that hardly stopped Imloth from spending most of his time accompanying the tiefling anyway. The two would meet up, wander about, often share a drink but rarely a word… Neither man really knew what to do with himself, but at least they could be clueless together.

The shuffling of papers and screeching of a pen became a constant background noise for the pair soon enough. Barred from entering the private quarters of Malakuth's mansion and thus, deprived of the chance to keep vigil over the comatose dancer housed therein, Deekin took to tailing the quiet duo in all but silence. Neither man minded his presence – the kobold and his incessant chatter had been a fixture in their lives long enough for them not to be bothered by it now.

"_Have you decided yet?_" Imloth asked as he signaled for the bartender to bring him his usual.

The tiefling shook his head. "_And you?_"

"_No._"

The two exchanged glances. Both were hoping the other would spare him the decision of where to go next by making one first. So far, neither had. Perhaps tomorrow…

**_XXX_**

She squinted at a relief of red carved into the dark of her skin. Rough and darkening at the edges, burning red and almost… liquid at the center, as if the flesh beneath was still smoldering. She could make no sense of the sight – a thick fog seemed to envelop her mind and dowse her thoughts.

A prickling sensation, somewhere between itch and pain, ran the length of her arm, down across the right side of her torso and fading away at the tip of her hipbone. Upwards, the throbbing extended at her armpit, the back of her shoulder, skipped most of the collar bone, picked up a line at her throat, and then spread again over the jawbone and across the right half of her face.

She touched her cheek. The skin felt both tender and rutted under her fingers. She touched her arm next. It felt the same. That meant, she reasoned, it probably looked the same as well. She thought it good to have that sorted out.

The dim light of a lone glowing stone danced winding patterns across her body. The flickering reminded her of something, but she didn't know what. She squinted again in an attempt to understand. There should be… a sound, accompanying the lights. A loud sort of sound. Loud and flashy, exhilarating and incredibly… painful all at once. Like a…

…Like an explosion.

**_XXX_**

"_That's the last of them,_" a scout signaled with one hand while whipping his forehead with another. Tarnash nodded, the feeble light of the glowing fungi nearby playing yet another game of shadows across his face.

"_Lets get back,_" he signaled to the rest of his squad. Several drow detached themselves from the walls and roughly hoisted the prisoners back to their feet. Tarnash watched them with satisfaction. The haul consisted of at least eight able-bodied humans and twice as much in goblins and orcs. They should catch a good price. Malakuth would pay them well. Life had never been better.

Nor was it dull, he decided later that day upon hearing the latest news from Vhaeraun's chapel. Not that he was surprised – shambling butt-naked into the chapel wearing only a stiletto arm bracer and saying not a word was exactly the sort of thing he came to expect from the dancer: spend a full month in a coma, wake up and, barely able to stand upright, wander into a roomful of drow without so much as a warning. _And_ not get killed somehow. Apparently, the world can turn upside down three times over, but some things will never change.

**_XXX_**

It would have been easy to kill her; in the end, it was just easier not to. Though no one would mourn her passing and quite a few would even cheer, Malaktuh still wasn't certain there wouldn't be some who would not be so satisfied with her death. Tracking them down, then tracking down their connections as well, and then taking care of them all was simply too much of a bother. Easier to just let the female live. And perhaps somehow profit from her continued existence. After all, wasn't it the Masked God himself who demanded she be saved in the first place? There must be, he reasoned, something about her that the god found worthy, or at least useful. And on a side note, he'd lie if he said he wasn't interested in seeing Izzlyn's offspring himself.

Not that she was much to look at right now. A month in bed left her dizzy and weak; not much flesh to begin with, she was now all but bone and sinew, with partially burnt skin stretched tightly over the two. By the way she devoured every last scrap of food in front of her, Malakuth got the impression she was attempting to make up for her weight loss all in one go.

She lifted her gaze only when she cleared her plate clean. The sole resemblance she bore to her sire were the eyes, but that was in colour alone. Izzlyn was as alive a creature as Malakuth had known; the look the half-breed was giving him was everything but. He could have sworn he had seen illihtids with more expression than hers.

She moved her lips soundlessly a few times before speaking, as if she had forgotten how to. When she finally did speak, Malakuth found he had to prick his ears to make out the words.

"…_What do I owe you?_"

He was prepared for something like that. Doubtless, the mercenary and the loner that she reputedly was, she'd want to settle any potential debts as soon as possible. "_A lot,_" he answered laconically.

Her expression didn't change in the slightest. "_How much is 'a lot'…?_"

"_Nothing you can't afford, I am certain..._"

**_XXX_**

Many thought Kimmuriel incapable of emotions, even by the low standards of the drow. Kimmuriel never cared to dissuade the assumptions; the emotionless façade had served him well. But he could feel all right, and what he felt right now was agitation. It was just as well that none of it showed on his face for either Malakuth or the dancer to see.

A part of him was still surprised at his own willingness to see the deal he had made through. At that time, he had been fully expecting the dancer to die and was only hoping she would not do so before fulfilling her end of the bargain. However, not only did she survive disposing of Sinvyl, but also a head-on collision with the arch devil later on – something that, to Kimmuriel's mind, no one had the right to do, especially a non-drow.

But survive it she did, if just barely, and was later revived by none other than his new allies here. Kimmuriel still wasn't sure what to make of that, but he did set out to make the best out of the situation at hand. This early in their tentative partnership, it paid to show his band made good on their deals. Viewed like that, fifty thousand golds and a magic item of choice weren't too high a price to pay for establishing the new partnership more firmly.

Just as leaving one kobold alive and at large wasn't too high a price to pay for sparing Malakuth a small-scale reprise of Mephistopheles-like explosion in his own living room, which was a likely scenario should the dancer learn a single scale was missing from the insufferable creature's hide. As an added bonus, he could use his role in the kobold's continued welfare as a bargaining leverage: its life for the scrying Mirror would surely be a fair trade in the dancer's eyes, no?

Bringing up the kobold was to serve yet another purpose to Kimmuriel. This was the only certain soft spot that he knew of in the dancer; mentioning it wouldn't fail to bring her mental armor down for a few moments – long enough for Kimmuriel to sneak in a probing mind tendril beneath her skull without alerting her to it.

That, however, didn't go down as he had planned.

He didn't attempt the scan for any definite purpose – he did it partly out of habit, partly out of curiosity. But while mentioning the beast did indeed work as intended, when Kimmuriel reached out, he met with an unexpected resistance. A shield of sorts was enveloping her mind, preventing his probe from reaching inside. The protection wasn't strong - nothing Kimmuriel couldn't pierce through with ease - but such an intrusion would not pass unnoticed.

There were ways of bypassing such protections without raising alarm, but whatever lurked inside that disturbed skull probably wasn't worth the bother. What the protection itself meant was another thing entirely. Had the Dark Daggers found suitable safeguards from mind powers already? And if so, did they have that many to spare to grant one even to an iblith female?

No… He dismissed the idea on the grounds of implausibility. Protections such as these were anything but common – there would never be that many to go around. He filed the issue away for later as Malakuth called their little meeting to an end.

The two males walked out on the street together. As far as Malakuth was concerned, everything had worked out nicely in the end: Lith My'athar was retaken and neither band lost too many soldiers while doing so. Business in Skullport was flourishing. House Tanor'Thal was that close to being entirely eliminated from competition. The band of ex-Maeviirs were proving themselves to be every bit as useful additions to the Dark Daggers as he had hoped they'd be. And he even managed to come to a vague agreement with the dancer concerning their possible future dealings. But while he could understand his own interest in keeping on good terms with a potential agent and an offspring of one of his own, he was curious about Kimmuriel's motives to apparently do the same.

"_Kimmuriel…_", he called after the psionic as they were about to part ways, "_You could have just walked away with that Mirror with none the wiser. Why _did _you let that winged beast live?_"

Kimmuriel considered for a moment. In the end, he merely half-shrugged and flashed Malakuth one of his rare smiles: "_The kobold was easy to dispose of. It was just easier not to._"

Malakuth laughed.

**_XXX_**

It's been another few days before she regained enough strength to at least stand up and walk on her own; weeks of fighting, sleep deprivation, malnutrition and a month worth of coma was enough to put a limit on what even her stubborn body was capable of standing. In contrast, there was seemingly nothing now that could put a limit to her final detachment from the world around her.

Well, perhaps a kobold…

"_Boss!_" Deekin squeaked happily and rushed up to her as she exited Malakuth's mansion through the back door. However, he stopped short of ramming into her and giving her – or at least her knees – a great, big hug. Instead, he looked her up and down and continued in the same happy voice:

"_You nots angry Deekin not gives you a hug rights now, Boss. If Deekin did, Deekin topples you over._"

Shi'van reeled back just the same; his mere voice was enough – a whiff of life, dispersing, for a spell, the deathly staleness she had turned into. She knelt down beside him, her knees turning wobbly in an instant, and clutched his wing with an outstretched hand so hard her knuckles turned white.

Oblivious to the grip on his appendage, the kobold went on with his blue streak. "_Deekin topples you over with Deekin's new book instead. Deekin topples _everyone _over with his new book! It be even bigger hit than the previous one! And Boss gets the first signed copy!_" The kobold stopped for a moment, considering something. "_Of course… Boss can always sell her copy later if she likes; Deekin not minds…_" Cheerful as his voice was, it was nonetheless clear he'd be crestfallen if she did. "_It be worths a fortune some day…_"

If it were at all possible, the grip on his wing tightened further. She blinked at him. For a moment, a fleeting shadow of emotion crossed her features.

"_I won't sell it,_" she croaked.

The kobold's face lit up at the proclamation. He was just about to start yammering again when a heavy footstep fell beside him.

Shi'van lifted her head and blinked at the tiefling. A bit behind and to his left, Imloth watched Valen and the dancer lock gazes in silence, an unspoken understanding passing briefly between them. There was a time, he recalled, when he had had to keep stepping between them on almost daily bases just to keep them from tearing each other's throats out. But those two people were long dead.

The dancer rose to her feet. Her eyes broke off the tiefling's face and settled on the drow. Imloth compared Valen's chipped horn to the burnmarks across her face. It wasn't that hard to determine who ended up worse for wear.

"_You look like a postcard from Hells,_" he offered. She blinked at him. And then shrugged. For a female, she was criminally unconcerned about her looks.

"_What will you do now?_" Valen asked quietly.

When standing up, her eyes were level with the tiefling's chest. Barely. She didn't bother lifting her eyes to look him in the face. She eventually addressed his torso and the stone wall off to his right instead.

"_Durnan's…_" she said. "…_get my money,_" she clarified. She was clearly twice as out of touch as both men combined; but not enough to forget about her own prime directive. A mercenary to the very end, and a mercenary well beyond it. Imloth almost chuckled.

"_Lets go, then,_" he said and immediately headed out without waiting for an answer. Insane or not, it was still a direction in which to head. That was more than he and Valen managed to come up with. So it would do. For now.

**_XXX_**

The experience was sobering in a way. Walking around Skullport with burnt skin was one thing - no one paid it any heed and she could pass as unnoticed in the streets as the next freak. But things were different up above. Up on the surface, people stared. She was being noticed. And the dancer did not like being noticed.

Durnan scrutinized the unlikely group currently standing in his basement. When they first arrived, they went straight to the main floor of the inn, but quickly relocated down here again. The sudden appearance of a drow, a hulking demon-breed, a heavily scarred half-elf and a kobold in tow almost caused a small riot on his patrons' part. But even if that weren't so, the sheer brightness of the world above would have chased the group down just as quickly. Too long a time in the lightless world below did that to people's eyes.

And while theirs were still watering, Durnan let his own wander from one person to another while he mulled over his next course of action. The woman wanted her money, she said. And she seemed prepared to stand in his basement until he produced it. Which would have been fine by him, at least for a while, if her request hadn't carried more ramifications with it than there were kobolds in the wilds.

There was no money, for one. Or rather, there _was_ money, but not for this purpose. The Lords of Waterdeep had opened their bags wide to accommodate all the mercenaries they had summoned for the Skullport attack. And with so many opportunists milling around, a significant amount of gold had to be transferred into security structures, too.

"_As I already told you, it will be… difficult,_" he said when the silence dragged on for too long. He received no response. Again. His looked at the drow for support. He knew Imloth as a member of the Promenade and though it was clear he was here personally, and not as a spokesman from his group, his presence still bared significance. Would the Promenade stand by this request, attempt to play an arbiter or claim neutrality? The drow was of no help. He merely shrugged, indicating that Durnan was on his own in this.

He looked at the woman again. He didn't like her. Back when she first came to his inn alongside other hopefuls more than a year ago, he penned her down as possibly dangerous and definitely bratty. A year later, he changed his opinion to definitely dangerous and possibly even more unhinged then she looked. But, he reprimanded himself, she did spend more than a year down below and Underdark did do horrible things to people, and not just physically. He had to temper his otherwise negative disposition with a bit of remorse on that account. And all else aside, she _did_ earn the money she was now asking for. He was certain of that. But most other Lords probably wouldn't want to hear about it.

"_The city of Waterdeep..._" he tried again.

"…_wouldn't like the reputation of a cheating cheapskate,_" she said quietly."_One hundred thousand gold pieces; the mess in the Undermountain; I cleared it; you pay it._" It sounded like a recital, and a bad one at that, but had a tone of finality to it. And a very definite threat, too.

Durnan wasn't the only one caught off guard by her abrupt, if ever so quiet words. Both the tiefling and the drow simultaneously gave her a surprised look. Even the kobold looked up from his writings. In light of what the woman just said, suddenly the sight of a bardic pen lingering over an empty sheet of paper became strangely ominous.

Shi'van, however, remained fairly oblivious to her surroundings. She had recited her part, as instructed, and now she was waiting for further developments. _Don't give them time to think,_ Malaktuh had told her, _Don't give them time to think of excuses – They might come up with anything. Like how can they know it was really you who freed Halaster? Don't give them time to start digging through their records - Who knows what they may find? A decade old bounties, perhaps?_ Frankly, she had no idea whether there were any or not, but it did seem a likely option. It was a five year long blank spot in her memory and who knows what she had been doing during that time. She sure didn't, and wasn't particularly interested in finding out, either.

_Why? _she had asked the Vhaeraunite. Why did the drow find her getting her due payment relevant to his interests? He explained, and his words made sense enough. He had his own operations going in the City of Splendors, and with the Lord's coffers already stretched thin due to recent affairs, having a large sum of money pulled away from the security and from the city's monetary flow all together would play into his hand perfectly. His agents on the surface had already begun working towards that end. All she had to do was to show up and present her waiting palm to the city's officials.

"…_tonight,_" she added before Durnan had a chance to reply. She just wanted him to leave already, get her money and be done with this whole thing once and for all. Even through the piercing pain in her skull caused by the sudden exposure to light, she was still aware of the stares she was receiving up there. She needed to think about that.

**_XXX_**

When Durnan finally left, he found things were already set in motion. Rumors, quiet and sporadic, but nonetheless present, were spreading through the city. _Waterdeep isn't going to pay,_ they said, from one mercenary's lips to another's ear. _Waterdeep is out of money,_ the traders whispered amongst each other. Whoever was behind that knew perfectly well what was going on. Imprisoning or even disposing of the mercenary woman, as some Lords readily suggested, was no longer an option. The only way to stop the potential disaster was to cut it in the bud, and the only way to do that was to regrettably pay what was owed after all.

**_XXXXX_**

Sigil was going to be a fresh start for her, but that was no longer an option. Living space in the Cage was scarce and hard to come by. The flat she was eyeing had likely already been sold and even if it wasn't, there was no point in starting afresh any more. Fresh starts were for the living creatures, not the ruined wrecks.

No one but the select few knew about her role in Mephistopheles' downfall. Unfortunately, Mephistopheles himself was likely among them. She had asked the avatar for a boon on top of her payment. She asked him to make certain neither Mephistopheles nor his baatezu ilk are to take their vengeance on her. The request implied she considered the vague possibility of surviving after all. The avatar had seemed amused by the sentiment. The boon was probably granted, though how that would work out remained to be seen.

How did her actual payment work out had been seen already. The psionic caught up with her soon after she had left Durnan's place and asked her about it. It made sense that he wanted to know where she had gotten her protection from mind intrusions. She told him, in exchange for the information of how effective it was. Though he hadn't spoken too highly of it, she had decided that it was effective enough.

The half-mask she now wore fit tightly on her face. In the end, she had been persuaded that wearing a mask drew less attention than wearing a faceful of scars. She was also told that, if left untreated, the rutted skin on her torso could eventually impair her movement. Similarly, the rutted skin on her neck and the lower part of her jaw could affect her ability to turn her head around. The blue-eyed priest left her a sufficient supply of ointment for it. She, in turn, left him more than a sufficient amount of money as a payment. She did not wish to owe anything to anybody. And she had enough gold not to.

It appeared that neither Imloth nor Valen knew what to do with themselves. She gave them something to do until they figure it out. Twenty thousand each to keep an eye on Deekin would keep the two supplied for a while, and would most certainly leave them with something to do. She wasn't sure what she really owed those two or why, but she was vaguely aware that there must be something. Perhaps she was wrong, but it didn't matter. Pretty much nothing did anymore.

Another twenty thousand and lodging at Durnan's paid for a year in advance left Deekin with more than enough time to polish his novel to perfection and sufficient means to find a publisher up there. Unlike with the other two, she knew exactly what and how much she owed _him_. But what he had done for her, what he had been for her for the past few years was over. He could no longer safeguard her sanity for her. She had none left for him to preserve.

She still had no idea why Tarnash spared her life back in the Maeviir compound. She asked him eventually, just in case she owed him something, too. He didn't know either, but didn't seem perturbed by that fact, so she decided she shouldn't be either and that ended her wrapping up of her affairs.

And she was now back where she had started. Ashes of a person. A ghost in living flesh. In the world of one. In a tomb for one. Did she have enough strength to climb out of it once more? Did she have a shred of will or willingness left to even try? She doubted it. But she didn't know. So she had decided to find out.

Even in the shadow in which she stood, sudden rays of sunlight assaulted her eyes as the ship passed through the portal and came out on the open sea. Salty air filled up her nostrils with the smell of water and fish. In a day or two, the heavy smells of spices and harbor garbage and sweat would join the first two as the ship drew closer to the port.

To Calimport.

Where it all began…

**- THE END -**

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Author's Note:** And there you have it, people - _The_ final part of Shadows. I... can't believe I actually managed to finsh it. Those of you who ahve been following this for a while longer know how much stalling there was between various updates. Those of you who joined up more recently are spared the wait, but I still can't figure oout how did you ever managed to get past the horrors that were the first ten or so chapters to get here (_bonus cookies to all of you who didn't run away screaming at the Mary Sue Paragraph o' Doom in chapter 2_). I'm glad you didn't, though. ;)

I'll add review replies to the forum and I'll keep replying in the same thread to any that might arrive in the future regardless of the chapter.

Finally, in case you might be intersted, do keep an eye out for a possible sequel. If one does get written, it'll be posted in Forgotten Realms section, but... that's yet to come and we'll see. Just dropping a teaser here, is all. ;)

And once again, thank you, everyone, for reading and commenting and above all else, for helping me to improve my writing.


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